FE7 x MTG Crossover: Planar Chaos on Elibe
by HellfireSupremacy
Summary: Phyrexians are invading Elibe. Only the planeswalker Mark and his coalition of nations can stop them. Rated for Language and violence. Years of difference between the old chapters and the newer ones. NEW CHAPTER: Fools and Sages. Pent fights Nergal, Overlord Xod appears, and the assault on Ostia Plague Hub Alpha approaches its epic conclusion.
1. Trial by Fire

**This is my first attempt at a FanFic. To the best of my knowledge, it's also the first FE x MTG crossover. Not sure how many FE fans follow "Magic: the Gathering" lore. Anyways, give it a read and tell me what you think. If enough people like it I'll try to update on a regular basis. Any pointers from the more experienced writers on this site would be appreciated. **

**And now for the Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem and I sure as hell don't own "Magic: the Gathering." If I did,**** Wizards of the Coast would still be holding MTG tournaments every Saturday. Stupid Hasbro buyout… **

Chapter 1: Trial by Fire

_This is it_, thought Mark. _I'm going to die_.

As the young tactician counted down what he knew would be his last precious moments before his time on Elibe expired, he found that he was unable to think of his family, or remember the good times in his life, or do any of the other things people were said to do when faced with their own mortality. All he could do was reprimand himself for his carelessness as he awaited the torrent of dragon fire that would send him to St. Elimine.

_How could I have let this happen? I knew Nergal was trying to summon dragons. I heard his final warning. I felt the ground rumble. It was all so fucking obvious! Why didn't I put the pieces together? Why didn't I order Nils to close that fucking gate as soon as Nergal's corpse hit the ground? Emotional downtime my ass! I should have known better. I'm a fucking tactician!_

Yes, in hindsight that would have been the best course of action. Now it was too late. Once the draconic onslaught began, there was no stopping it. Three fire dragon's had breached the Dragon's Gate and slaughtered the better half of Eliwood's Elite Unit. The small army had fought valiantly, but could do nothing to stop the ancient and hateful beasts. Dragon fire was an omnipotent weapon. The swiftest swordmaster couldn't dodge it. The toughest general couldn't endure it. The most learned sages couldn't resist it. There was no protection from the killing flames. Against such a weapon the most powerful fighters on Elibe could do nothing but accept their doomed fate and die with honor.

_Die with honor. What a fucking joke. There is no honor in death. Only a cold dark grave awaits the dead. Oblivion. Dreamless slumber. Nothingness. What then? Where does one find honor in oblivion? What becomes of our valor and virtue when our mind is no more and our bodies have gone to the worms? _

Mark had always been a notorious cynic, and his current situation wasn't exactly doing wonders for his world view. With each passing moment, more fire breathers emerged from the Dragon's Gate. There were eight of them now, and the air was becoming unbearably hot. Mark tried to breathe normally, but each gulp of air sent a searing pain through his body. The fluid in his lungs became scalding hot. His skin went dry. His lips cracked. Did he actually feel his blood boiling in his veins, or was he just hallucinating from the fire and the pain?

_If I'm wrong about the after life, if there really is a glorious heaven where St. Elimine rewards her followers and a fiery hell where she punishes the wicked, this must be what hell feels like. An eternity bound in fire. Could this be a message from St. Elimine. Have I been damned to hell for leading these brave men and women to their death?_

What remained of Eliwood's Elite was preparing to make their last stand against the fire dragons. Mark witnessed the final battle through heat-swollen eyes and couldn't help but beam with inner pride as they prepared to charge one last time. There was no question about it: they were the best of the best. Even on this hellish battlefield where the very air they breathed had been turned against them, they had summoned the strength and valor for one more fight. Yes, they were indeed the best of the best. And Mark had trained every last one of them. There was Lyn—sword in hand—ready to strike with her Sol Katti. Behind her was Rath, taking aim with his Reinfleche bow. The daughter of the Lorca and the son of the Kutolah. They had fallen in love on this journey. They had pledged their lives to each other. Now they would die together. Off in the distance, Mark could make out the silhouette of a small child. He wasn't quite sure who the petite figure was. His vision was beginning to go blurry, and all he could make out was a tiny feminine frame. Perhaps it was Florina or Rebecca. Maybe Nino…

"Excalibur!" With a series of complex hand gestures and that single word of command, the small girl sent a mighty blast of razor-edged wind to the nearest fire dragon. The anima spell struck its target dead-on, cutting a deep gash beneath its left eye.

Yep, it was definitely Nino.

The wounded dragon responded with a vitriolic roar. Probably more out of anger then pain. Mark wasn't sure what a dragon's threshold for pain was, but he assumed that it was quite high. Enraged or excruciated, it didn't really matter. Before the dragon could retaliate, Rath maneuvered to the right, knocked an arrow and landed a well aimed shot in the dragon's good eye. With both eyes wounded and the foe virtually blind, Lyn went in for the kill.

Against a normal foe this tactic would have worked. A blind foe can not hit his target with reliable precision. But dragon fire requires no precision. It bathes the ground in killing flames and destroys all in its path. Precision be damned; if a dragon spits fire in your general direction, you die. And that's exactly what happened to the Sacaen Princess who thought she could defeat a dragon by depriving it of its sight.

That was the end of it. Eliwood's Elite had taken all the punishment it could bare. Those who still lived lost their will to fight at the sight of their noble lady reduced to ashes. All illusions were dispelled. There would be no tomorrow for the heroes of Elibe. They were going to die in a foreign land, away from their friends and family, away from hearth and home. There was nothing left to do but say their final goodbyes. Those who had developed feelings for each other while serving in the army dropped their weapons and embraced one last time as the killing flames descended. Kent and Fiora, secret lovers who had been too modest too reveal their affections to the rest of the army, enjoyed their first and last public display of affection moments before the inferno struck. With his back turned to the approaching firestorm, Heath wrapped Priscilla in his powerful arms as though sacrificing his own body would somehow protect the young Valkyrie from her doomed fate. Sain held on tight to Florina even as the first flames hit. Florina, for the first time in her life, did not scream or recoil from a man's touch. She accepted the gesture and returned it in kind, clinging to the Green lance until the fires had burned through the last of her muscles and she could hold on no more. With his final, searing breath, Jaffar confessed his feelings for Nino. The assassin who had once served Nergal as an Angel of Death died with love in his heart. Nino died in the arms of her guardian angel.

It was over in an instant. The wave of fire passed, and Eliwood's Elite was no more. Only Mark remained in a room filled with smoldering corpses and enraged fire dragons.

_This is my punishment for hiding behind my title as tactician and sending others to die on the front lines while I sit comfortably in my command tent. I get to watch my entire army, everyone and everything I've cared about for the last year of my short life die in a fire. Then I get to die alone. No one to hold me, No one to tell me they'll be waiting for me at St. Elimine's Pearly Gates. I'm going to die alone and unloved and…well…dead. _

The legion of fire dragons, now numbering 20 strong and still growing at an alarming rate begins its advance on Mark's position.

In all his life, which admittedly had only been 17 years, the tactician had never felt so powerless. Here he was—bloody, broken, and covered in third degree burns—surrounded by fire dragons. Their eyes burn with anger; they know that this wretched human with the charred cloak is the one who led an army against them. In their ancient blood, they remember another time when men led armies against dragons, when humans and dragons fought for dominion over Elibe. There is no word in the human language that describes the anger and the hatred in these dragons, the ancestral memories that compel them to burn this puny human child that is Mark. The dragons have but one word for this hatred: _Ignara_. It is the word for blind fury; the kind of fury that can only be expressed through an overwhelming display of power.

**Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.**

Two dozen fire dragons chant this word in unison as they stoke their fires. Mark hears the chant and knows his time has come. He summons what remains of his strength so that he can stand up and face his slayers unbowed. Unashamed. Unbroken.

**Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.**

The chant grows louder. Mark waits for the fiery breath, but it never comes. These fire dragons do not slay him with their breath. That would be too quick. Too painless. Mark will receive no such mercy from these creatures. They despise him. They look at him and they remember the scouring. They remember the humiliation dragons suffered at the hands of man, the defeat that drove them from the land of their birth. For this human, only one punishment is suitable.

**Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.**

The chant achieves its desired affect. A blanket of fire engulfs Mark. This is no ordinary fire. Its flames are infused with an ancient magic known only to dragons. It is the magic of longevity and preservation. All at once, the magical flame strikes Mark. He burns, but he does not die. The ancient magic preserves his life as the flames slowly destroy his body. This is the punishment of the fire dragons. Mark will feel every torment inflicted upon his body. Even as the fire consumes his vital organs, pushing him past the point of mortal death, magic will ensure that he lives on in exquisite agony. Even now, as the fire blackens bone and boils blood, Mark lives. He feels the fire in his veins as his treacherous heart pumps the burning fluid throughout his body. His digestive tract ruptures in a thousand places as gastric juices and stomach acids spontaneously combust. The super heated fluids expand rapidly, ripping through Mark's abdominal cavity and lacerating the tactician from waist to sternum. Mark bears the pain in silence. He can not scream, not while his lungs burn and his voice box glows red-hot. All he can do is cough up blood, bile, and fire in a feeble attempt to expel his torment.

**Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.**

Now comes the greatest agony of all. The inferno reaches the spinal column. Nerves fry. Synapses fire uncontrollably, sending what remains of Mark's body into a series of grotesque spasms. The fire dragons have waited for this moment. This is their overwhelming display of power. This is Ignara. They cast their cruel gaze on Mark's writhing form and laugh. Soon they will end the spell. Soon they will allow their fire to kill Mark but for now, they will watch their victim squirm in agony.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the spectacle is over. The dragons cease their chanting, and the flames revert to their non-magical state. Now the fire dragons wait for Mark's inevitable passing. Without their life-supporting magic, he will not survive more than a few seconds. And so the dragons wait…

5 minutes

Mark still shows signs of life, and the fire dragons are intrigued. This is highly unusual…

10 minutes

Mark is not only showing signs of life, he's also beginning to show signs of recovery. Now the fire dragons grow worried. This should not be happening. Ignara is the dragon's death sentence. Nobody recovers from Ignara. It would be akin to a convicted felon recovering from a trip to the gallows.

15 minutes

Marks body is now fully healed, and it seems even healthier than it was before the fire dragons began their chant. Mark's frail body bulges with well sculpted muscles. His eyes reopen. His gaze is fixed. There is power in his newly reformed body; pure, unadulterated power. It radiates from every pore, proclaiming his supremacy to all who stand before him. The dragons recoil in primal terror. They have awakened an ancient and terrible power in this human child. It is a power easily recognized by all dragonkin from the bloodline of the five elders(1). Mark the tactician had become a Planeswalker(2).

Authors Notes

(1) In "Magic: the Gathering" lore, all dragons are descendents from the bloodlines of five elder dragon. They are:

Arcades Sabboth, the first White Dragon

Chromium, the first Blue Dragon

Nicol Bolas, The first Black Dragon

Palladia-Mors, the first Green Dragon

Vaevictis Asmadi, the first Red Dragon

All five of these dragons were (and in some cases, still are) planeswalkers.

(2) Those of you who are unfamiliar with magic the gathering lore will probably be a little lost during the first few chapters of this fanfic. At the very least you should know what a planeswalker is. Here's the Wikipedia definition of "planeswalker"

"In the fictional world of 'Magic: the Gathering' a planeswalker is a powerful being, able to travel across the planes of existence. According to the setting, the potential to become a planeswalker (called the 'planeswalker spark'), is innate—very few are born with such a spark, and anyone who does not possess such a spark cannot possibly become a planeswalker. (Such a spark can, however, be transferred from one being to another, though the process is highly dangerous and potentially fatal.)

The 'spark' is not the only requirement for becoming a planeswalker, however. Many people who possess the spark never realize their planeswalker potential. A person who possesses the spark must also "ascend", which usually occurs during a time of great stress (most common being a form of horrendous death, _e.g._, the sylex blast or its aftereffects). This ascension, as well as the extraordinary amount of power at their fingertips, drives almost all planeswalkers insane over time. In an attempt to prevent this, most planeswalkers are tutored by older ones.

A planeswalker has complete control over his or her physical appearance, and does not have mortal needs, such as the need to eat, drink, sleep, or even breathe (though sleeping helps them retain sanity). Planeswalkers are very difficult to kill and can't die of natural causes, or being stabbed, or even dismembered. Some, however, (such as Urza, the most well-recognized of planeswalkers among Magic) do eat and sleep in order to feel more sane. Their need to do mortal things has become a mental one. Planeswalkers rarely have relationships with non-planeswalkers due to their near-immortality. They know, as soon as they meet someone, that they will outlive them, and that they will have to live with the loss."


	2. A Planeswalker's Folly

**Chapter 2 of Planar Chaos on Elibe is up! This chapter is more MTG oriented then the last one. Hey, it's a crossover, right? Anyways, the story will go back to FE7 focus in Chapter 3, and I don't plan on doing another chapter with this many MTG references anytime soon. Oh, and remember all those characters I killed of in Chapter 1? Let's just say you haven't seen the last of them in this FanFic.**

**I don't own Fire Emblem and I sure as hell don't own "Magic: the Gathering." I which I owned Magic the Gathering. **

**Please R&R. **

Chapter 2: A Planeswalker's Folly

Elsewhere in the Multiverse (1), somewhere on the unmarked surface of a small desolate world, another planeswalker casts a spell that will change Elibe forever. This planeswalker is no stranger to the powers so recently awakened in Mark. Teferi (2), for that had been the planeswalker's mortal name, is a 1,300 year old Tolarian wizard and a self proclaimed expert in the field of time-altering magic. Teferi has dedicated his entire immortal life to unlocking the secrets of time. It is this quest that has brought him to a desolate plane. Time is a powerful medium. Even on the most remedial levels, tampering with time can have devastating consequences. When beings as powerful as planeswalkers use their magic to manipulate time on a grand scale, a single mistake can bring about global ruin. For this reason, Teferi has come to a lifeless plane to cast his most potent spell to date. He acknowledges the possibility of failure at the outset of his time-experiment, so he has come to a plane where such failure will not result in needless death.

Thirteen centuries of obsessive study have revealed this fundamental truth to Teferi: the Multiverse as it exists is but a single thread in the immeasurable continuum of the Multiverse as it could be. Each "thread" constitutes a single timeline; a series of events from past to present occurring in a perfect linear sequence. Furthermore, each timeline is parallel to all other timelines. This is the natural order of the Multiverse; a single world has infinite duplicates in infinite time dimensions, but no two copies of the same world ever meet because their alternate time dimensions exist in a perfect parallel state at all points in the continuum.

Teferi believed he could overrule this natural order. His calculations had shown that with a sufficient application of magical force, the parallel course of timelines could be curved. The implications of this discovery were astounding: if the parallel structure of alternate time could be broken, it was theoretically possible to bring a pair of duplicate worlds together at a single point in the Multiverse.

The world as it was could be forced to overlap with the world as it could have been.

_No._ Teferi corrected himself. _The world as it SHOULD have been. A world without war. A world without plague. A world without Thran war machines and Phyrexian abominations and all the horrors Dominaria suffered at the hands of Urza _(3)_ and Yawgmoth_ (4).

His logic was sound. His motives were pure. His path was clear. Without a moment's hesitation, Teferi cast his spell. Super-concentrated mana shot forth from the planeswalker's body. Time and space crumbled like rocks beneath a sledgehammer as mana displaced temporal energy in the wake of his sorcery.

Teferi sent his conscious mind surging through the rift he had opened in the continuum. Reaching back through the ages, Teferi pinpointed the exact moment in time in which cataclysmic death had struck the world now serving as his test-subject. Having located his target, Teferi released another burst of mana. This time, he sent his sorcery directly into the temporal rift.

Now came the hard part. Teferi channeled every last drop of strength in his superhuman body to complete the final phase of his spell. Through sheer magical force, Teferi ripped the affliction from the world's timeline. Tapping into his blue-mana reserves, Teferi wrapped the contaminated history in an azure stasis bubble and hurled it into the depths of space. Teferi then reached into a parallel timeline and pulled it of its course with the remainder of his blue-mana, forcing the history of two duplicate worlds to converge at the point where Teferi had tampered. With one last surge of blue-mana, Teferi spliced a period of peace and prosperity from the alternate dimension into the disrupted timeline of his test subject, filling the gap he had created in world history and mending the temporal fissures created by his spell.

The results were instantaneous. Free-flowing water returned to the desiccated surface. Eroded mounds became mountains. Poisoned air became breathable. Barren landscapes came alive with foliage and wildlife. Life extinguished by a disaster that never happened returned to the world.

As far as Teferi was concerned, the experiment had been a success. He had fixed a broken world by bringing two timelines together and turning what was into what should have been. Blissfully unaware of the devastation unleashed upon distant Elibe by his careless hand, the planeswalker returned to Dominaria (5). He now had evidence that it was safe to use this potent spell on his home world. Or so he thought.

Meanwhile, back on Elibe…

Mark emerged from the Dragons Gate adorned in the blood of fire dragons. Instead of closing the ancient gateway, Mark had opted to destroy it. His planeswalker body easily withstood the energy backlash from the collapsing portal, but the fire dragon's hadn't been so lucky. Their mortal bodies had been torn asunder. Transdimensional forces had sent blood and guts flying in every direction, and Mark hadn't cared enough to dodge the fetid spray. A few minutes ago he had been covered from head to toe in killing fire. Dragon foulness was actually an improvement.

Not that it mattered. Mark could reform his body at will. With a single thought Mark phased out of existence, leaving the remains of two dozen fire dragons behind in a putrid pool. Moments later he phased back with his conjured apparel in pristine condition.

_Quickest bath ever_, Mark thought.

Mark knew he was no longer human. Elibe's mightiest heroes had perished in flame, but somehow he had survived. Like a phoenix he had risen from the ashes, reborn with vast unimaginable powers. Powers he was only beginning to comprehend.

Mark observed that his new body could function without food, drink, rest or even air. He suspected that he was now functionally immortal, although he had no desire to test this theory anytime soon.

Basic planeswalker instinct told him that he could travel to other worlds with a mere thought. This had been a shocking revelation. Moments ago he had no knowledge that world's beyond Elibe even existed. Now he not only knew of their existence, he was capable of visiting them on a whim. Mark could sense two worlds in close proximity: Magvel and Tellius. To the mortal eye they appeared to be nothing more than stars in Elibe's night sky. Mark had often observed these astral bodies through his telescope from the grand balcony of the Tactician's Academy, never once suspecting that they were hospitable worlds.

Mark once again found himself gazing at the stars. He had no telescope, although he easily could have conjured one. Mark was now capable of enhancing his sensory faculties through sorcery to such an extent that he no longer needed a magnifying lens to observe the movement of the heavens.

_Magvell and Tellius, two worlds just like Elibe. How many are there?_ Mark wondered._ Are they all like Elibe. Do they all have humans and dragons, wyverns and Pegasi?_

The thought of being functionally immortal suddenly seemed very appealing to Mark. All his life Mark had been a seeker of knowledge. As a scholar, what more could he ask for than unfettered access to the whole cosmos for all of eternity?

Mark completed his scan of the heavens. There was much to explore, much to learn. He was eager to perform his first planeswalk and begin his journey of discovery, but it did not seem right that he should depart so soon. Mark had noticed something during his survey of the skies. Something was out of place in the heavens. An azure flare tore through the skies on a collision course with Elibe, leaving a palpable aura of malignance in its wake. There was something ominous about this flare, something that foretold death and devastation on an unimaginable scale. Cliffhanger

Authors Notes

1

Not a typo. In the world of MTG, the cosmos in its entirety is called the Multiverse instead of the Universe. Don't ask me why. It just is.

2

Teferi was a minor character for most of the MTG series. Recently he became a major character in the MTG books Time Spiral and Planar Chaos. Not much to know about this guy for the purposes of this FanFic other than that he has a fetish for time spells and that he was Urza's pupil. Teferi turned against his teacher due to an ethical disagreement.

3

Urza: a 4,200 year old planeswalker. He is the main character for most of the MTG series. Technically he's the protagonist, but he often does more harm than good in his attempts to defeat his enemies. Urza is willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to defeat his arch-nemesis Yawgmoth.

4

Yawgmoth: a 9,000 year old megalomaniac with godlike powers and dominion over the world of Phyrexia. He's the main antagonist in the MTG series. Contrary to popular belief, Yawgmoth is not a planeswalker.

5

Dominaria: the main setting in the MTG series. Probably won't be used as a setting in this FanFic since I really want to keep this FE7 oriented., but I make no guarantees.


	3. Disaster Strikes

**Chapter 3 is complete. As promised, I brought the story's focus back to FE7 in this chapter. But don't think you've seen the last of my MTG plot elements. This is still very much a crossover, albeit a FE-centric one.**

**I don't own Fire Emblem and I sure as hell don't own "Magic: the Gathering." I wish I owned Magic the Gathering. **

Chapter 3: Disaster Strikes

Mark hovered above the hidden village of Arcadia tracking the movement of the azure flare as it grew closer and closer to Elibe. By the Planeswalker's reckoning, the flare was moments away from breaching Elibe's outer atmosphere and would make contact with the surface within the hour.

Mark had spent the past three days tinkering with a simple but effective shielding spell. As a planeswalker, it was within Mark's power to cast such a spell on a global scale. Unfortunately inexperience prevented Mark from using his powers to their full potential. As it was, Mark could barely maintain his magical hold over a single village.

Mark's original plan had been to erect a barrier over one of the Lycian city-states, but those wards had been too unstable. Realizing that he could only spread his newly awakened powers so far, Mark had instead cast his protective spell over the Village of Dragons. It was probably for the best. If there was one settlement on Elibe that deserved to survive the coming disaster it was Arcadia. This was the one place where humans and dragons could still live in peace.

_Perhaps it would not be so bad if the rest of the world is destroyed, and only Arcadia remains to herald a new age. The world could be remade in the image of this desert paradise. It would be a return to the days before the accursed scouring._

Mark immediately dispelled such nihilistic thoughts. It was a dangerous line of thinking; one that the Planeswalker did not which to pursue. Mark was defending Arcadia because it was within in his power to do so, not because he had some maniacal desire to remake the world.

_No matter how powerful I become I will never stoop that low. I will protect mortals. I will not use them to pursue my own selfish goals. I will not become another Nergal. As I ascend, I will not forget the value of life. _

The flare had broken through the clouds and was getting dangerously close to the surface. Mark made a few last minute adjustments to make sure his barrier would hold. Reaching out to the distant plains of Sacae, the Planeswalker drew white-mana from the land. Of all the skills Mark had acquired since his encounter with the fire dragons, the ability to use mana was the one he understood the least. Mana was the oldest and most perfect form of magic…a natural means of casting spells that predated the invention of tomes and staves by countless millennia. Mark knew that there were five types of mana. There was the green mana which came from forests and the red mana that came from mountains. There was the blue mana that came from islands and the black mana that came from swamps. And then there was the white mana that came from plains. Of the five colors Mark found white mana to be the most effective for casting defensive spells, which is why he now found himself drawing upon the strength of the Sacaen Plains to fortify his barrier.

His final preparations complete, Mark retreated to his perch atop the Library of Arcadia. Here he would have a grand view of the collision that was now only minutes away. As much as he hated to admit it, part of Mark was actually curious to see what would happen when the flare struck. If nothing else, it would be one hell of a show. Within the protective confines of his power-shielded village, Mark hunkered down and prepared for impact.

The impact wasn't quite what Mark had anticipated. He had expected the azure flare to accelerate as it descended and crash into Elibe with great force, but the flare seemed to defy the laws of physics. It actually slowed down as it approached the surface. Even more bizarre was the fact that the rest of the world seemed to be slowing down with it. It was as if time itself was being reduced to a snails pace by the incoming ball of blue mana.

The longer Mark watched the strange spectacle, the more he became convinced that's exactly what was happening. He could sense a temporal disturbance building around the flare; for his enhanced senses and keen mind missed nothing. Frowning, the planeswalker pumped more white-mana into his shield. This was going to be bad…

Elibe seemed to come to a standstill as the flare made contact with the horizon. For one unnaturally long moment, nothing happened. There was no cause. There was no effect. The flow of time had come to a complete stop. The surface glowed pale blue under the strain of pent up temporal energy. In that one moment Elibe ceased to be a world and instead became a crucible; a sea of infinite potential inundated with the history of two timelines. Then with a sickening jolt, the overloaded world snapped and the order of frozen time gave way to complete and utter chaos. Beyond the planeswalker's barrier history was unmade and remade in the image of a world that never should have been allowed to exist.

Dragons and humans alike cowered in fear beneath the bombardment of extraplanar forces. Mark had advised the citizens of Arcadia to remain cloistered in the underground ruins while the storm spent itself on his shield. Not that the underground ruins were any safer then the village. Mark simply wanted to spare them the trauma inherent in witnessing an event of apocalyptic proportions. However, some of them had been too curious (and many more had just been to damn stubborn) to listen to the planeswalker. Now they stared in wide-eyed horror as the world that had sustained their people for countless generations collapsed into a twisted mockery of its former self.

Mark's frown grew more severe. The terrified Arcadians were still blissfully unaware of the full extent of the disaster. They saw only what was happening to their native Nabata. Mark looked past the corruption of the desert and sent his conscious mind to other lands to inspect the damage.

The verdant plains of Sacae had given way to a barren wasteland. Where once there had been endless seas of grass and gentle streams, now there were only baked ravines and scorched sands. It seemed more like the Nabata Peninsula then the proud home of the nomads.

Nabata itself was even worse. Elibe's natural desert had given way to blighted grounds and unnatural monsters. These creatures could not have possibly been created by the benevolent saint. They were grotesque amalgams of machine and flesh. Their hearts pumped vile blood and glistening oil. Their bodies were supported by skeletons constructed of interwoven bone tissue and steel filaments. Their skin, if it could even be called skin, was a bulky suit of reptilian scale and metal armor plating. Their muscles consisted of live wires entwined with organic protein fibers. Demonic horns adorned their metal skulls. Grafting-plates covered their expressionless faces. Next to their hulking bodies and thick skulls, their limbs seemed disproportionately long and slender. Most shocking of all, these creatures had no hands. In place of the dexterous human appendage these monsters sported various killing instruments—mechanical scissors, harpoon guns, barrel cannons, chainsaws, power drills, venomous stingers, metal talons, etc.—grafted directly on to their lower arms.

_Phyrexians. _

It was a name Mark had never heard, but instantly recognized at the sight of the metal invaders. Every planeswalker since Dyfed had ascended with an inborn fear and hatred of these foul creatures. They would have to be dealt with before their presence on Elibe expanded.

Temporarily blocking out thoughts of the Phyrexian menace, Mark once again turned his focus to the task at hand: scrying for signs of permanent damage in the nations beyond Nabata. The planeswalker turned his attention towards Ilia and ran a quick scan of Elibe's northernmost territory. Much to his dismay, Mark found the home of the fabled Pegasus knights in a state of sorry disrepair. For one thing, there were no longer any Pegasus knights. Apparently, the noble Pegasus had gone extinct 300 years ago in this alternate-reality Elibe. Deprived of the very foundation of its economy, Ilia had quickly succumbed to anarchy and destitution. The queen of Ilia had been assassinated shortly after the last of the pegasi died off. Since then, Ilia had gone from a nation of poor mercenaries to a country of thugs, cutthroats, and prostitutes.

To the south, Etruria was in a state of political upheaval. A mighty warlord from the Western Isles had overthrown the ruling houses of Etruria and declared himself god and divine emperor of the state. His first order as divine emperor had banned the teachings of St. Elimine and authorized a grand inquisition throughout his imperial domain. Spreading the Saints teachings was now an offense punishable by death. Every day agents of the inquisition executed dozens of monks for failing to comply with the order and paraded their desecrated corpses through the streets of Etruria like grim trophies. Armed rebellions frequently erupted in villages still loyal to Etruria's exiled government. The new emperor, brutal and efficient as he was, was nevertheless hard-pressed to silence the masses. The end result was a perpetual state of civil war and genocide in Elibe's former capital of learning and enlightenment.

Worst of all was Lycia. The confederation of city-states had been ravaged by three centuries of plague and famine. The citizens of Lycia lived in the most sordid conditions imaginable—refugee camps, leper colonies, abandoned cellars, back-alley taverns, etc.— while the opulent nobles of the ruling houses consumed what little remained of the broken nation's resources to feed their extravagant lifestyle. If they had been able to afford armor and weapons, surely the people of Lycia would have risen up in collective outrage and punished their neglectful patrons. As it was, the citizenry could barely afford the food and medicine they needed to survive in this age of pestilence. Everyday, more corpses were thrown into the mass graves. Proper burial was a luxury no longer afforded to the Lycian people. The dead had to be burned immediately after the wake; every corpse was a potential carrier for the dreaded plague. Besides, why waste perfectly good farmland on funeral plots? Food was all too scarce these days.

Bern had long ago contracted whatever contagion was plaguing Lycia. The only thing that prevented Bern from collapsing as completely and pitifully as its neighbor to the west was the mighty wyvern. When all else failed, a citizen of Bern could still count on strength of arms and mastery of wyverns to earn a comfortable living as a mercenary.

Mark sighed. By most definitions of the word, the world was now officially fucked.

However, all was not lost. A single beacon of hope remained, its light restored from the flames of the Dread Isle and scattered across the continent by the rising tides of chaos.

Mark had found them while he was scrying. The soldiers of Eliwood's Elite soldiers were alive and well.

For the first time in many days, Mark smiled. His greatest blunder had been undone. Whatever else was wrong with the world, He could fix it. This time he would not make the same careless mistakes that had led Eliwood's Elite to its doom. He would assemble a mighty coalition, humans and dragons alike. He would restore Elibe to its former glory, one nation at a time.

**Heh heh, you didn't honestly think I was going to kill of everyone except Mark in the first chapter did you? That's right my friends: Eliwood's Elite is back in business! And yes, they will be shedding Phyrexian blood. Eventually… **


	4. What Became of Ilia

**Okay, good news bad news time. The good news is I just finished chapter four of Planar Chaos on Elibe. The bad news is my English teacher just assigned a massive end of the year project that's going to consume most of my free time for the next month or so, so I won't be able to update again until June. Hopefully I'll have more than one review by then (thanks Xoroth!).**

**More bad news: I still don't own Fire Emblem or Magic: the Gathering. **

Chapter 4: What Became of Ilia

Farina walked up to a man who had been eyeing her from across the street. "Hey big boy," she whispered seductively. "You like what you see?"

"Aren't you a bit young to be working the streets?" The man asked.

"I'm old enough to give you what you want." Farina moved a bit closer to the hapless man rubbing up against him with her bust to illustrate the point.

A small moan escaped the man's lips.

"That's right," Farina cooed "you know you want me."

The man met Farina's gaze with lustful eyes. He was putty in her hands.

"Flirting is free. You want the full package, meet me in that alley. For just 500 gold I'll let you do whatever you want to me."

5 minutes later…

A very excited man walked into Farina's alley carrying a pouch full of gold. If his mind hadn't been completely occupied with thoughts of all the sordid things he wanted to do to the blue haired girl waiting to please him, he would have noticed two slim figures concealed in the shadows. But distracted as he was, the hapless man never even saw them coming. The last thing the man saw before Fiora and Florina slit his throat in five different directions was Farina mouthing the word "Sucker."

_So this is what my soldiers have been reduced to. Working the streets and murdering perverts in back allies _

The three sisters jumped at the sound of Mark's voice.

_I'd expect this kind of behavior from Farina, but you Fiora? For shame. What kind of an example are you setting for your little sister, Florina?_

Farina drew her dagger. "Who are you, and how do you know our names!?" she demanded. "Have you been stalking us?!" Fiora and Florina drew their bloodstained sabers and took a defensive stance beside their sister

_I know a great many things, young Ilians. About you. About your destiny. About this world. _

Mark chose that moment to materialize. His sudden appearance instantly pacified the three sisters. It wasn't his mystical words or his unconventional entrance that caused the femme-fatales to drop their weapons, fall to their knees, and gape in disbelief. It was the creature beside him.

Florina's face lit up. "Is that…is that a Pegasus?"

_Yes Florina,_ t_his is the noble Pegasus. I summoned it using white mana. I can summon many more; enough to repopulate all of Ilia. It is within my power to do all this and more, but I can not do it alone. I need your help. This is my promise to you: aid me in my quest and I will restore your homeland. You, in turn shall reclaim your destiny. _

The three sisters stood speechless. Fiora and Florina seemed completely taken in by the display, but Farina was still skeptical. Every survival instinct she had picked up on the streets of Ilia was telling her not to listen to this stranger's honeyed words. He would poison their minds with promises of a better life, use them for his own pleasure, then cast them back out onto the streets when he grew tired of their company. It was a common trick.

"You're obviously some kind of sorcerer." Farina said warily "I've dealt with your kind before. How do we know that thing isn't just one of your illusions?"

Mark summoned another Pegasus directly underneath Farina. The winged steed hoisted her off the ground and began trotting around the alley with the blue haired girl on its back.

_This is no illusion Farina. This is a real Pegasus. For three hundred years your people have been robbed of their birthright. No more! _

Mark conjured a third Pegasus, this one directly below Fiora.

_You were destined to become great Pegasus knights; windborne warriors without peer. Your skills put Bern's mightiest Wyvern Lords to shame. You shattered silver lances with iron swords. You flew through archer's volleys and emerged unscratched. You mastered the triangle attack and assassinated warriors and berserkers as though they were command brigands. You were indestructible. Your enemies cowered before you. The destiny I speak of is once again within your grasp. Will you reach for it? _

Florina needed no convincing. She had already mounted the first Pegasus and was busy stroking his mane.

"He's beautiful!" Florina squealed. "I'm gonna name him Huey and put braids in his hair, and we're gonna be best friends forever!"

Fiora had no objections. She was happy that her sister was happy. She couldn't help but smile at Florina's antics. "Florina always wanted to be a Pegasus knight." She explained. "Actually, we all wanted to be Pegasus knights when we were young, but me and Farina stopped thinking about that kind of thing when we started working the streets. I guess Florina just never grew out of it…"

"Oh knock it off, both of you!" Farina screamed. "Florina, get off that damn thing and stop acting like a five-year-old. Fiora, cut the reminiscing-older-sister crap and tell this bastard to fuck off. We don't need his fancy magic or his fake pegasi. We can take care of ourselves!"

"Farina, what the hell is wrong with you!" Fiora shouted. "This man is trying to…"

_By the way, my name is Mark_

"…Right. Mark is trying to help us. He's giving us a chance to become Pegasus knights. He's giving us a way out."

"Oh come on Fiora, don't you see what he's doing. This is all a trick. He's trying to take advantage of us. He wants to…"

"You just don't get it, do you Farina!? Not everyone is like you! There's an entire world full of people who aren't trying to lure you into a back-alley. Some people are actually decent. Some people will actually try to help you if you don't push them away or run off with their wallet!"

"Don't even go there Fiora! We did what we had to do to stay alive. You think I like standing on a street corner batting my eyelashes like a common whore!? You think I like living like this!? And you didn't exactly try to stop me, did you Fiora? Sure you bitched and moaned about the immorality of it all! But when push came to shove you had no problem cutting throats for gold, did you!?"

"Its like you said, Farina. We did it because we had to. We had no choice; it was the only way to put food on the table. But now we do have a choice. We can become Pegasus knights and live like our ancestors did before the great disaster."

_BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP _

Fiora and Farina immediately complied. Mark's voice was commanding and all-powerful. It was a tone he had mastered during his days as a tactician. He used it when he needed his soldiers to follow a very unpopular order, such as "go clean the latrines."

_Not sure if you've noticed, but I believe your little sister has something she would like to add to the discussion._

With mild surprise, the arguing sisters turned their attention to Florina. The shy girl rarely said anything when Fiora and Farina were fighting. Hell, she hardly said anything at all.

"Well…" Florina began nervously. I just want to say that whatever you decide, I want to go with Mark and become a Pegasus knight.

Fiora and Farina completely forgot about their prior argument and stared at their little sister in shock.

"Florina, you do realize that Mark is a man, right?" Farina inquired.

Florina nodded meekly

"And do you remember what I told you about men. About how they're pigs and barbarians and can't be trusted? What they'll do to you if you let your guard down?"

Perhaps it was just the feel of the Pegasus beneath her legs, but somehow Florina found the courage to confront her older sister and say two words she had never said to anyone in her entire life.

"You're wrong."

… …

…

… …

…

"What did you just say?"

"I said your wrong Farina! I don't want to live on the streets and cut throats for the rest of my life! I don't want to watch my big sister humiliate herself on the same street corner day after day after day just so that we can buy bread and meat! I want to be a Pegasus knight and I'm going whether you come or not!"

By the end of her tirade, Florina was sobbing uncontrollably. Farina looked at her baby sister with guilt and pity and for the first time in her life, she felt like a fool.

"Florina…I'm…I'm so sorry. I never realized how much this was hurting you. I keep forgetting, you're still so young. You shouldn't have to live like this."

Florina stopped crying and looked up expectantly at her big sister.

Farina sighed. Her sisters were right. Life wasn't taking them anywhere. If there was even an off chance that what this Mark character would keep his promise, it was better then spending the rest of her years in an alley.

"My little sister isn't going anywhere without me. Count me in."

_Excellent choice, Miss Farina. Now, if this messy business is concluded I would like to depart immediately. That is if there are no more objections._

"Nope"

"No complaints here"

"The sooner we get out of this alley, the better"

_In that case, everyone gather round and prepare for teleportation. Next stop: Sacae_.

"Why Sacae?" Farina asked "Nothing there accept sand, dust and a bunch of dirty desert nomads"

_Please withhold your judgment until you actually meet the Sacaens. I asssure you, they're very nice people._

"Okay but that still doesn't answer my question. Why are we even going to Sacae in the first place?"

_As we speak, the Taliver bandits are preparing a massive raid that will result in the extermination of the Lorca tribe, unless an outside party intervenes. We're going to be that outside party. _


	5. Prisoner of the Bandit King

**Got around to updating sooner than I anticipated. Somewhere In between working on my English project, satisfying my World of Warcraft addiction, and writing that retarded masturbation joke "Matthew Corrupts Your Favorite Activities" (funny thing is it actually got more reviews than all previous chapters of this FanFic, and I consider this to be a work of superior quality) I managed to squeeze out chapter five of my MTG FE crossover. Enjoy!**

**I still don't own Fire Emblem, I still don't own Magic: the Gathering, and I still wish I owned Magic: The Gathering. If I owned MTG, I never would have allowed ****Legions**** to hit the shelves. Worst MTG book ever. **

Chapter 5: Prisoner of the Bandit King

Mark materialized in a barren wasteland with three pegasus knights and three conjured mounts in tow. While his newly acquired companions adjusted to their surroundings, Mark took mental notes on Sacae's depleted landscape. He knew from his scryings that much of the Sacaen Plains had turned to dust, but he hadn't expected the worst of the damage to be this extensive. How the nomad's had managed to survive for 300 years in a land with no vegetation and barely any water was beyond even Mark's comprehension. Truly it was a testament to the hardiness of the Sacaen people; no other race could have done it. As if to prove the point, Mark's Ilian entourage was already complaining about the heat.

_Suck it up soldiers. We didn't come here to sunbathe. We came here to kill bandits and recruit new allies. Now, turn around and take a good look at what you see._

The last thing Fiora wanted to do was show any sign of weakness in front of the enigmatic sorcerer to whom she had pledged her loyalty, but despite herself she flinched and retreated several paces when she turned around and came face to face with the reason Mark had brought them to this particular region of Sacae. The same thought instantly flashed through the minds of all three sisters.

"Mark, what exactly are we looking at?" Florina asked nervously.

_Our target._

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Farina sighed.

Kreiger Fortress: The stronghold of the Bandit King stood tall and imposing as ever in Elibe's alternate reality. Hanon himself had used this fortification as a base of operations during the scouring. Kreiger's true master had long since returned to Mother Earth and Father Sky, but the stronghold's ancient defenses remained intact. Of course, the Bandit King had taken the liberty of adding a few new features to the seven stories of enchanted brick and mortar. Steel walls and killer ballista protected the fortress from all sides. The Bandit Kings expendable minions—common brigands, myrmidons, archers, and foot soldiers—patrolled the surrounding area while his more competent taskmasters and raiders oversaw operations within the fortress walls. Bern's infamous wyvern mercenaries patrolled the skies in record numbers. Dozens of the mighty reptiles circled the towering spires of the seventh story. All this paled in comparison to the Bandit King's greatest defense. In the dungeons beneath Kreiger Fortress he kept a single prisoner, a hostage of sorts. As long as the prisoner remained in the Bandit King's procession, he was the undisputed Lord of Sacae.

_Behold, Kreiger Fortress! Within these walls the Bandit King plots the extermination of the Lorca tribe and imprisons Rath Silverwolf, son of the Kutolah chieftain Lord Dayan Silverwolf. The Kutolah dare not oppose the captors of their chieftain's son. We can expect no aid from the Kutolah unless Rath is freed from his captivity. That's where you come in, young Ilians. You're going to storm the fortress, rescue Rath, and return him to his tribe. Then we're going to ride into Lorca territory with an entire platoon of Kutolah rangers at our back and meet the Bandit King's marauders head on. Doing so will build a bond of trust between Ilia and Sacae. If you succeed in this endeavor, I will have a foundation for my coalition of nations and the disenfranchised people of your homeland will have new hope. Any questions?_

"Yeah," said Farina. "I got a few questions. First of all, where are you getting all this information: the identity of the Bandit King's secret prisoner, his plans to exterminate the Lorca tribe? How could you possibly know any of this? And how the hell are three Pegasus knights supposed to storm a fortress defended by hundreds of bandits?"

_Reasonable queries, Farina. I would have you know that I get all my information from arcane scrying. As for your second question... _

With a mental command Mark called upon the five colors of magic. With a surge of red mana the Planeswalker shattered the steel walls of Kreiger Fortress. Many of the Bandit King's minions were vaporized by the shattering spell's mana residue. Many more were torn to shreds in a rain of metal shards.

Mark wasn't done. With a surge of green mana, he reduced the steel shards to a gelatinous state and breathed life into them. The newly awakened saprolings—for that was what the Planeswalker had created with his artifact-mutation spell—turned against the remaining bandits on their master's command. All efforts to subdue the fungal slime-beasts proved futile. Metal weapons melted upon contact with their acidic skin. Saproling acid burned through flesh and bone faster then a mage's flame.

Mark still wasn't done. With a surge of white mana he summoned lions and hawks to the battlefield. What projectile steel and acid tentacles hadn't accomplished, these newest additions to the grand melee finished with gruesome efficiency. By fang and claw, by beak and talon, more bandits fell to the furious assault.

Mark still wasn't done. With a surge of blue mana, he unleashed air elementals upon the hapless wyvern mercenaries of Bern. Claws of razor-edged wind shredded wyvern wings. With earsplitting cries the beasts fell to Elibe. Most of the wyverns had been lucky enough to die on impact. The less fortunate wyverns were still alive when the fungal hordes of saprolings—decomposers by their very nature—descended upon their fallen bodies en masse.

Mark still wasn't done. With a surge of black mana he reanimated the corpses of the slain bandits and enhanced their necrotic bodies with sinister-strength enchantments. The bandit zombies turned against their living counterparts, former comrades at arms, with a bloody vengeance.

Just like that, Mark had single handedly conquered a thousand year old fortress.

_Hopefully that answers your question Farina. As you can plainly see, numbers mean nothing when a planeswalker is backing your efforts._

Needless to say, the three sisters were dumbstruck by Mark's demonstration. Farina noted Mark's combat proficiency and made a mental note to stop antagonizing the planeswalker. His powers were superhuman, and he would never fall for her jailbait ploy. Either by luck or design, she and her sisters had acquired a powerful patron. There was nothing to be gained by pissing him off, even if he did deserve it for being a pompous ass.

Florina and Fiora were thinking more along the lines of 'what in the name of all that is holy are those disgusting green blobs? And why are those dead bandits moving again? What else can this guy do?'

_I've done my part. In order for this gambit to succeed, you must complete the mission on your own. From this point on I'll be minimizing my involvement in this rescue operation. I will however be providing you with improved weaponry and armor. _

With a mere thought, three sets of street rags became three standard-issue Pegasus knight uniforms; complete with breastplates, shoulder pads, and delphi shields. Florina, Farina, and Fiora looked admiringly at their new apparel.

_Now, for your armaments. Each of you will receive an enchanted weapon that suits your personality and affinity. These weapons have been enhanced by my own magic. Use them wisely. For Florina, a Light Brand._

A scabbard with a golden hilted sword appeared at Florina's waist. Even through the heavy leather scabbard, she could see the luminous glow of her new weapon. Florina drew her blade and slashed at the air experimentally. In mid-arch, a blinding flash of light erupted from the blade. Had a real foe been standing in front of the young Pegasus knight, the attack would have burned his eyes right out of his sockets.

_For Farina, a Flame Lance._

A deep crimson spear engraved with fiery runes appeared in Farina's right hand.

Farina twirled the spear and gave it a strong thrust. A column of white-hot flames erupted from the tip of the fully extended spearhead, scorching the air and turning desert sand into fused glass.

"Awesome," Farina cheered.

_Finally, for Fiora, a Sonic Sword._

A scabbard with a large, emerald sword appeared at Fiora's waist. Fiora drew her weapon, spun around, and performed a quick slicing maneuver. A flurry of ethereal wind blades traced and retraced Fiora's attack several meters in front of her, extending her range well beyond the reach of a normal blade.

_My work is done for now. The rest is up to you. Remember your objective: rescue Rath Silverwolf and earn the trust of the Kutolah tribe. I'll intervene if things start to go downhill. Good luck girls._

With that, Mark disappeared.

**Lots of MTG references in this chapter if you know where to look for them. Aside from the obvious references to Planeswalkers and the five colors, MTG veterans may also recognize…**

**-Shatter: An old classic. Its no oxidize, but it gets the job done. **

**-Artifact Mutation: Fun R/G spell from invasion block, destroys an artifact and summons saprolings**

**-Savannah Lions: The prodigal child of white weenie decks. Gotta love these bad boys.**

**-Sun Tail Hawks: The other prodigal child of white weenie decks. Throw in Glorious Anthem and your good to go.**

**-Air Elementals: generic blue flying creatures with cool card art. **

**-Zombify: is there any better way to represent black than with a good old-fashion reanimation spell. I think not.**

**-Sinister Strength: you remember this one, right? Enchant creature, 1B for +3/+1 and immunity to most black kill spells. One of my personal favorites. **


	6. First Blood

**Okay, in an attempt to garner more reviews I will be allowing my readers (a.k.a. you) to decide how the next part of this story plays out. After Mark and the girls conclude their business in Sacae (still a few chapters to go with that), they can do one of three things. They can either:**

**Go to Lycia, which is completely ravaged by plague and famine**

**Go to Bern, which is ravaged to a lesser extent by plague and famine AND still has the black fang to contend with (were they corrupted in alternate reality Elibe? We don't know yet.)**

**Go to Etruria, where the ruling houses live in exile, monks are being executed in the streets, and the people wage civil war against the armies of a usurper megalomaniac. **

**I've got a general idea where I want the story to go in each territory, so whatever you pick works for me. Just review the damn thing. I still don't own Fire Emblem, and I still don't own Magic: The Gathering**

Chapter 6: First Blood

Taskmaster Grefen retreated to the dungeons beneath Kreiger Fortress at the onset of Mark's surprise attack. The probable cause behind the assault was well known to Grefen, for he was the Bandit King's most trusted jailor. Whereas his lesser colleagues could only watch over common slaves, Taskmaster Grefen was in charge of the Bandit King's special prisoner. At the time, Grefen had been pleased with his assignment. He had been hand selected for his immense strength, cruel disposition, and unwavering loyalty. That he should guard the man whose captivity kept the Kutolah at bay was a sign of the supreme trust his master placed in him. But now, that prisoner was causing more trouble than he was worth for the taskmaster.

Grefen threw open the dungeon gates and stormed into Rath's holding cell with a look of maniacal rage. Rath steeled himself for the coming exchange. Nothing good ever came from Grefen's unscheduled visits. The nomad was still nursing three broken ribs and a black eye from their last exchange, and the jailor looked particularly vexed on this occasion. "Get up!" Grefen bellowed. "What the hell is going on up there!? Monsters roam our fortress and a wizard hurls spells at our walls. Speak now if you want to live!"

"I know nothing of these events." Rath said evenhandedly. "No one else bothers to tell me anything." Grefen looked unconvinced.

"Liar!" he spat, backhanding Rath so hard that the imprisoned nomad almost lost his footing. But for the chains holding him in place, he probably would have fallen before his tormentor. "There's only one thing in this entire Fortress worth stealing, and the Kutolah are the only ones who care enough to take it. The Lorca are too busy defending their own borders to waste their efforts on another tribe, and no one else even gives a shit about you Sacaen mongrels. Your worthless father hired a summoner to do what he couldn't, am I right?"

"…"

"Or perhaps, Dayan found a summoner within his own tribe to rescue his son. Tell me Rath, is that possible? Are there any Kutolah shamans who have that kind of power?"

"…"

"ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE PRICK!"

Grefen struck Rath again. This time he made sure to hit a few of the ribs he had cracked during their last encounter. Rath didn't even flinch. He had become accustomed to such beatings and had long ago taught himself to hide his superficial pains. Even in his captive state, he would not betray his tribe by showing weakness.

Grefen had beaten too many prisoners in his life to fall for such a ruse. Every human being had a limit on how much pain he could tolerate. Breaking them was simply a matter of finding and crossing that threshold between pain and unbearable agony. Rath had not yet reached that threshold. Grefen could fix that. Easily.

Rath's beating was cut short by the sudden appearance of a large saproling. The slimy beast had melted through the dungeon ceiling and fallen to the ground with a sickening plop. A pair of misshapen bandit-zombies followed the saprolings lead. The fiendish trio converged on Grefen and his prisoner.

"See Rath?" Grefen grinned with sadistic glee. "They have come to take you away from us. They come, but they can not have you. You belong to the Bandit King now. You belong to me."

So saying, the taskmaster flourished a branding iron from a nearby rack of torture equipment. Grefen charged into the fray like a madman, impaling the nearest zombie with his improvised weapon and searing its corrupted flesh. Satisfied that his former underling was dead for good, Grefen withdrew the befouled iron from the zombie's necrotic abdomen and lashed out at what was clearly the biggest threat in the immediate area, the giant saproling. Grefen attempted to deal with this new foe in the same manner, flourishing his branding iron with considerable force and bringing all his terrible might to bear in a single, lethal thrust. However, this attack proved insufficient against the saproling. The branding iron melted upon contact with the beast's skin, rendering Grefen weaponless and at a clear disadvantaged. But the taskmaster was never without a plan in combat situations. Wary of the caustic effect he had just witnessed, Grefen evaded the saproling's flailing slime-tentacles and stayed out of the main bodies reach. With each dodge, he deliberately made his way to the remaining zombie's position until he was close enough to engage the creature at melee range. The zombie sensed an opportunity to strike and lashed out with putrefying fingers, but even with Mark's battle enchantments it was too slow. Grefen dodged, pivoted, and kicked his zombified comrade into the saproling's fungal mass with his heavily armored boot. The result was effective and instantaneous. Even as the saproling's acidic bulk unmade the zombie, the zombie's corrupting touch unmade the saproling. Much to the taskmaster's amusement the clashing essence of green and black mana dissolved his two remaining foes. Grefen's triumph was short lived. Before he could get back to toying with Rath, a series of powerful explosion rattled the dungeon walls.

"Grrr…more interruptions," Grefen muttered. "At least this time I can properly arm myself." Grabbing a set of tomahawks and a hefty battle axe from his personal stash, which he kept in the dungeon at all times (if for no other reason than to remind his prisoners who was in charge), Grefen took an aggressive stance and licked his lips in anticipation. He enjoyed nothing more than shedding blood in the name of the Bandit King. Perhaps this next foe would be a real challenge. Perhaps the wizard had summoned a dragon whelp or a lesser demon or…

…or a blue-haired girl with a smoldering red lance.

Grefen frowned in disappointment. He wanted a challenge. This was a joke. He had bested entire squads of nomad patrols. What chance did this pathetic little girl, who by all indications appeared to be nothing more than a common Ilian wench, stand against one such as him. None; Grefen would break her and have his way with her. Perhaps he could keep her as a serving girl. If he wished to do so it was certainly within his power and no one could tell him otherwise. He was the Bandit King's most trusted servant. In this corner of Sacae, his word was law.

"Little girl," Grefen growled. "You'll regret approaching me. All who dwell within this fortress are mine to command. You've entered my castle. Now, I'm your king."

Farina leveled her fiery weapon and met the taskmasters gaze. "I'm yours if you can take me. But if I win, and I always win, the prisoner Rath comes with me."

"Well now, isn't that something? You always win, and I never lose. We'll see which of us can truly back their claim with blood and steel."

Grefen hefted his battle axe and charged. Farina didn't even move. She and her sisters had done this maneuver countless times back in the alleys of Ilia, and it always went of without a hitch. Why should this run be any different?

Grefen saw the trap at the last second. It was too late to dodge the previously concealed girls who were now lunging for his exposed parts with their enchanted blades, but his superior reflexes left him another course of action. Switching his enormous axe to a defensive position and turning to face his ambushers, Grefen shielded himself from what could have been a life ending blow. After weathering the impact, the taskmaster retaliated with his own overwhelming strength. Still holding his axe like a shield, Grefen sent Florina and Fiora flying with a powerful shield bash. Farina tried to stab him from behind while his attention was focused on her sisters but Grefen anticipated the attack and met Farina's lance with his boot. The kick knocked Farina off balance long enough for Grefen to grab her and hurl her at her sisters, who had recovered from their rough landing and were now attempting to reengage the taskmaster. Farina landed on Florina and Fiora, who had to toss aside their outstretched weapons to avoid accidentally skewering their middle sister.

Rath absorbed the significance of the battle with silent dread. Grefen had easily bested the three girls who had come for him (presumably to rescue him, although the blue-haired girl hadn't said so explicitly). If he wanted to, he could have killed them by now. The fact that they were still alive meant that he didn't _want _to kill them. The wretched cur was going to keep them as trophies, and he would subject them to every torture he could devise before ultimately disposing of them. Unless…

Rath looked down at the dead slime beast in front of his cell. It's innards had seeped forth and collected in a foul puddle inches away from his feet. That slime had dissolved Grefen's branding iron. Perhaps they could dissolve his shackles. Rath looked up. Grefen was busy brutalizing his new trophies. The bastard would be distracted for quite some time.

Rath bent down. Grefen had loosened the shackles just enough for his prisoner to kneel and beg. That would be enough for what his prisoner now had in mind. Rath brought his hands down to the pool of slime. The vapors near the surface stung his skin. It was agony, but it was a bearable agony. Nothing like the suffering Grefen was capable of inflicting upon his victims. Rath dipped his shackles in the vile liquid. The metal sizzled and turned brittle. With a gentle tap against the stone floor of the dungeon, the restraints shattered altogether. Rath freed his legs in the same manner. His full range of motion restored, the emancipated nomad turned his attention to the next obstacle: Grefen. The brute kept a killer bow in his personal stash. That would be sufficient. Rath made his way to the stash and grabbed his weapon of choice. He knocked a single arrow and took aim at his tormentor. He would only have one shot.

One shot was all he needed

Rath fired his arrow. Grefen heard the twang of the bowstring and saw the danger coming. This time there was nothing he could do. From his current position it would be impossible to block or dodge the attack. Grefen died with a curse on his lips. A curse against the Kutolah and their meddling wizard. A curse against the Ilian whores who had diverted his attention from battle. But most of all, a curse against the Sacaen mongrel who had severed the bandit king from his right hand with a cowardly shot from behind. All this and more Rath perceived in the expression of pure malice on Grefen's face in the final moment of life before his arrow struck home.

**Yay! My first OC, Grefen the Cruel, only appears in this one chapter. But still, a first is a first, Right? R&R please.**


	7. The Phyrexian Shadow

**Chapter 7 of Planar Chaos on Elibe is up and running. This is the chapter where plot elements from Magic: the Gathering really start to come together in the wonderful world of Fire Emblem. As usual I don't own Fire Emblem or Magic: The Gathering. **

Chapter 7: The Phyrexian Shadow 

"They've done it!" Dayan exclaimed. "They've freed Rath! By Mother Earth and Father Sky, this is a joyous day! Grefen is slain and my son is free!"

With the aid of Mark's scrying pool, Lord Dayan Silverwolf had watched Florina, Fiora, and Farina fight their way through the dungeons beneath Kreiger Fortress and confront Grefen the Cruel. Dayan was overjoyed that his son and his people were finally free from that monster. Mark on the other hand seemed less then pleased.

_I expected a better showing from my young pegasus knights. Street life has taught them the value of stealth and guile, but their martial prowess is sorely lacking. At least your son remembers how to fight. Rath's skills are still as they should be. _

"Many a nights I stayed awake with worry, fearing that Grefen's tortures would destroy my only son," said Dayan. "I feared that if I ever saw him again he would be changed forever, that he would return to his tribe a broken man. It puts my mind at ease to see that my fears were unfounded. My son is exactly as I remember him: proud, strong, and clever."

_I wish I could say the same about the soldiers I sent to rescue him. But enough of this... _

With a wave of his hand, Mark unsummoned his scrying pool.

_Your son and my pegasus knights must cross a vast stretch of desert before they reach Kutolah territory. The journey will take at least two days. In the meantime, we have important matters to attend to. You said your tribal seers foretold my arrival. Tell me, how much did their visions reveal?_

"Much of what the seers foretold has already come to pass," explained Lord Dayan. "In their visions, they saw a man who wielded the power of the gods. They saw him come to Sacae with emissaries from Ilia, return that which was taken from the Kutolah, unite the great tribes, and drive the minions of the Bandit King from our lands."

_Your seers got their facts straight chieftain, but what they saw was only a shadow of my greater plans. Ending the reign of the bandits and restoring the power of the tribes is only the first step. When all is said and done, what I hope to achieve is nothing less than the complete renewal of the land itself. I would use my powers to restore the Sacaen Plains._

"…Can that be done?"

_Yes. I noticed something as soon as I arrived in Sacae: the land no longer produces white mana. Mana is the essence of all things, and I believe the desertification of Sacae is somehow related to this mana anomaly. If my theory is correct, I should be able to revitalize the land by infusing it with white mana from my own reserves. Doing so will require a tremendous application of magical force, but I believe this task is within my power. In fact, I would go so far as to say the mana infusion will be the easiest part of this whole process. _

Dayan caught the implications of Marks last statement. "If performing your magic is going to be the easiest part of your plan, what's the hard part?"

_Removing the Phyrexian invaders from the equation._

Dayan was puzzled by Mark's blunt response. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"

_No. I'm still not entirely sure what it means. On the subject of Phyrexians, I know only what basic information I've been able to glean from tomes in the Library of Arcadia. In ancient times, five planeswalker dragons came to Elibe and recorded lore from other worlds in tomes which they gave to their mortal kin. One such tome speaks of the Phyrexians, an unnatural race created by the dark god on an unnatural world. These creatures have no natural means of reproduction; they assemble themselves in birthing vats using the flesh of conquered races and the metals of conquered lands. Using portal-generating devices called ambulators they travel to other worlds in search of resources they can take back to their vats. They use those resources to build more Phyrexians and conquer more worlds. Right now their presence on Elibe is small, but once they arrive in full force they will be unstoppable. _

Dayan struggled to process the information Mark had just given him. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me that an unstoppable race of killing machines from another world found Elibe, and now they want to take our land so they can use our corpses and our metals to build more killing machines. Did I here you correctly?"

_Yes, that would be an accurate summary. However, if we move quickly, we can contain this Phyrexian incursion in its early stages. I lack the power to single handedly stop an entire Phyrexian invasion, even a small one. To stand any chance against their immeasurable hordes I would need the full support of the united armies of Elibe. I already have the support of Arcadia. Soon the Pegasus knights of Ilia will fly once again, and when they do, they too will be mine to command. Do you understand why I am telling you this Lord Dayan Silverwolf, Chieftain of the Kutolah Tribe? _

"Yes. You want the Kutolah tribe too back your war efforts. This is why you have rescued my son and promised my people miracles."

_Well, what say you? Will you join my coalition of nations?_

"…Show me that you can do that which you have promised and the Kutolah will be yours to command. Restore the verdant plains of Sacae."

_My apologies Lord Dayan, but I can not do as you request at the moment. I am a planeswalker. My power is like a beacon to Phyrexians; it draws them out in full force. The amount of magic it would take to restore Sacae would most certainly draw their ire._

"Then do not restore all of Sacae, planeswalker. Restore only a small patch of land, just enough for us to farm and let our horses graze. I will accept this as a sufficient demonstration of your abilities."

Mark thought it over. Surely a few acres of mana infusion wouldn't be enough to give away his presence to the Phyrexians. If he was careful, he could probably suppress most of the power signatures with a blue-mana dampening spell.

_If I do this, the Kutolah will pledge their loyalty to my cause and follow me into battle?_

"You have my word of honor," said Dayan. "Men of Sacae never tell a lie."

Mark nodded

_So be it. You will have your land, and I will have your army. Welcome to the coalition._

So saying, Mark began channeling blue and white mana. He sent the white mana directly into the ground, dramatically altering the landscape of the Kutolah village. Sand became soil. Ravines became rivers. Grass sprouted. Trees grew. Dust settled. As the transformations were taking place, Mark released his blue mana in a distorting cloud. Whatever power spike his white mana infusion had produced would be scrambled by his dampening spell. By the time his power signature reached the Phyrexians, it would be too diluted to raise any red flags. For the time being, his tampering would go unnoticed.

Dayan bowed before Mark "I am a man of my word great one. You have done my people a great service. On behalf of the Kutolah tribe I pledge my loyalty. Command us as you see fit."

* * *

In his private chambers, the Bandit King stood ill at ease. He lived at his master's pleasure. And right now Master Xod was very much displeased. 

"On your knees servant," Xod commanded in an inhuman voice. The sound produced by his artificial vocal chords sounded something like the hiss of a snake blended with the screech of grinding gears.

Without a word, the Bandit King complied. Xod placed a metal talon on the man's forehead. "Who do you serve, flesh puppet?" he hissed.

"I serve the Phyrexian overlords, dread one."

Xod drew the tip of his talon from the man's forehead down to his temple. "Who gave you the power to rule and control? Who made you the King of Bandits?"

The Bandit King gritted through the pain of Xod's touch and managed to respond "everything I am, I owe to Phyrexia."

"No," said Xod, retracting his talons and tightening his grip on the man's skull. "What you are is a failure. Phyrexia does not tolerate failures."

With force no natural creature could ever muster, Xod crushed the Bandit King's skull and hurled him across the room. Had the Bandit King been an ordinary man the attack would have killed him, but the Bandit King was no longer an ordinary man. He was an agent of the Phyrexian overlords. Enhanced by Phyrexian science and black mana enchantments, his body healed within seconds. Of course he still felt the pain. The Phyrexians made sure he could still feel pain. How else would they control him?

Xod moved with blinding speed. Before the Bandit King's skull had even finished mending, Xod was at his throat. With a single hand, Xod hoisted the fully armored, heavily muscled man into the air.

"A land of white mana will not be tolerated in a world ruled by Phyrexians," said Xod. We bled this land of its mana. All you had to do was exterminate the tribes who inhabit this land, those who have a white mana affinity and an ancestral connection to the plains. You couldn't even perform that one simple task. Grefen is dead. Your prisoner is gone. All your plans are falling apart. What now Bandit King? Xod released his hold on the man's throat and let his flailing body fall. "What value do you have to Phyrexia?"

Coughing for breath, the bandit king could only wheeze "the Lorca…exterminate immediately…full force…will not fail."

Xod looked down at the man with disgust. "You are beneath me flesh puppet. Go forth and do something productive. If the yields from your next raid do not meet our quota, you will be terminated and your parts will be reprocessed. This meeting is over."

Xod didn't even wait for the Bandit King to respond. He had wasted enough time with this servant, and his presence was now required elsewhere. With a simple command, Xod activated his ambulator. Moments later, he was halfway across the continent.


	8. An Unholy Alliance

**Lots of fun stuff in Chapter 8. Nergal returns, we learn more about Master Xod, and the next battlefield is revealed. I still don't own Fire Emblem or Magic the Gathering.**

Chapter 8: An Unholy Alliance

Xod's visit with the Bandit King had made one thing painfully obvious to the Phyrexian Overlord. His current batch of minions was completely and unapologetically incompetent. At least he would soon be rid of the useless tool. Once the tribes of Sacae united against him the Bandit King wouldn't last long, even with his Phyrexian enhancements.

And then there were his puppets in Etruria. Oh, what an inept bunch they had turned out to be. His sleeper agents were still struggling to hold their own against a rag-tag army of human rebels. By all accounts the Rebel leader, Renaud or Renault or whatever his name was (honestly, these human names all sounded the same) had proven himself capable of great feats. Even so, he should have been dead by now. No mortal army could stand in defiance against the will of Phyrexia.

Clearly, Xod needed a new minion. This one would have to be of superior quality. The time for bleeding the land and spreading pestilence was drawing to a close. Soon it would be time for phase two of the invasion, and the Overlord would need a competent second-in-command to lead his armies.

The gears in Xod's head were quite literally turning. His new minion would have to have superhuman abilities, even before receiving Phyrexian augmentations. Phyrexia could turn even the most pathetic creatures into warriors worthy of battle, but those with preexisting talents responded best to the enhancements. Of course, Xod's second-in-command would need more than power to ascend beside his master. He would need to have a strong black mana affinity. That was a given. More importantly, he would need to have the mind of a Phyrexian. That was why his previous minions had failed. They had the minds of humans. Xod had given them power and they had used it to conquer.

Phyrexians did not conquer Phyrexians _evolved_.

That was the ultimate goal, to remain on the cutting-edge of evolution. Flesh creatures evolved slowly over millions of years through the inefficient process of natural selection. Phyrexians had rejected inefficiency and developed their own method of artificial evolution. After, nine thousand years of building and rebuilding themselves, the Phyrexian race had surpassed all others. In coming to other worlds Phyrexia only sought to spread its glorious vision; to help the mortal races shed their larval skin of natural life and evolve into Phyrexians. Who could deny the perfection of their mission? Who could witness the miracles achieved on Phyrexia and do naught but prostrate themselves in submissive worship?

Xod reached across the continent of Elibe with tendrils of psychic energy looking for a likeminded individual. Someone who understood the mission of Phyrexia. Someone who understood the folly of man and the weakness of mortal flesh. Someone who sought perfection in another form. He found his likeminded individual southwest of the mainland on an island tainted by black mana. The man was ancient and powerful, and his black mana affinity was strong.

_Perfect,_ thought Xod._ This one will serve me well._

* * *

That night, Nergal had a disturbing dream. It had been close to a century since the dark druid had dreamed. Unbeknownst to Nergal at the time, this dream would be his last. 

In his dream, Nergal saw an army of thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands, marching through a fetid swamp. There were some creatures among their ranks that Nergal recognized: humans, pegasi, even dragons. Others were completely new to him. There were creatures that appeared human, but were slightly out of proportion and had elongated ears or wings. There were creatures that appeared to be half human and half bull. There were walking trees the size of mountains and great flying ships that spit fire. A single ship from that terrible army could have leveled every major city on Elibe without stopping to land and reload. "Such power," whispered Dream-Nergal. "Marvelous. Absolutely marvelous."

Then Nergal heard a strange voice in his head. _This is the army that lost the battle of Urborg_, said the voice. _Now you will see the almighty power that won. Bare witness to the glory of Lord Yawgmoth_.

At that moment, a black cloud appeared from a volcano in the center of the island in Nergal's dream. At first Nergal thought it was just volcanic smoke. Then the cloud expanded, blanketing the entire world in metaphysical darkness. The sky disappeared behind the black cloud. Then with a single almighty effort, the cloud constricted and squeezed the life out of Nergal's dream world. The mortal armies died instantly, only to rise again and bow before their slayer. The greatest of abominations: life bowed to death incarnate. Then the cloud constricted again and the dream world was no more.

In its place, Nergal found himself standing in a world of machines and monsters. Furnaces the size of cities sent bursts of soot into the sky. Turbines the size of castles generated gale force winds. Overhead, an unimaginably large network of pipelines transported oceans of steam and glistening oil across the horizon. Nergal stood speechless. What could he have said to express his admiration of the supreme intellect that designed and built this incredible machine? What must he do to acquire such vision and such power?

The mysterious voice spoke again. This time it spoke only one word. _Follow_. A black orb appeared in front of Nergal. It moved forward across the dream landscape. Nergal followed as though in a trance. The orb led him to a dark metal vault, filled with strange and disturbing paraphernalia. Tables covered with needles, syringes, scissors, and bone saws lined the vault. Naked, featureless figures floated in large vats filled with oily liquid. Cratures that looked like metal skeletons in red robes roamed the vault, carrying bloodied saws and random body parts. Screams could be heard from an adjacent room. The black orb led Nergal through the workshop of morbid creations, down a long and even more disturbing hall full of half-dissected cadavers. It stopped in front of a table near the end of the hall. _Look down_. Nergal did so. What he saw made him ill.

In his dream turned nightmare, Nergal saw his own lifeless body stripped, pinned down, and cut-open. His skin and muscles were flayed back. His bones were broken in multiple places to expose the soft organs beneath. Several of the metal skeletons he had seen earlier in the workshop hovered over his body, prodding his organs with probes and sticking them with labeled needles.

"What is this!? Nergal shrieked in horror. "What are these creatures doing to me!?"

_The vat priests perfect you_. said the voice. _They complete you. They remove that which is weak and human and replace it with that which is strong and Phyrexian_.

Sure enough, Nergal saw that the metal skeletons this mysterious voice had called "vat priests" were remaking his body. They replaced his drained blood with an inky black fluid. They strengthened his dismantled bones with titanium reinforcements. They replaced organs designed to function on nutrients and oxygen with organs designed to function on oil and mana.

Nergal's lifeless doppelganger was no longer lifeless. Nergal looked down at his mirror image and saw everything he had ever been and so much more. Untold power flowed through the sutured body. Never had Nergal seen himself so godlike; so close to his dreamed state of perfection.

_This is the power of Phyrexia,_ said the voice. _Serve us and that power is yours._

The black orb shattered and Nergal awoke from his dream in a cold sweat. His first thought was that it had all been a dream and he had nothing to worry about. Metal demons weren't cutting him open. His second thought was _I'm not alone_. A figure very much like the one he had seen in his nightmare stood before him. This one was not a skeleton. He looked more like a humanoid raptor with his knees bending forward in a predatory crouch, his glistening talons, his elongated skull, and his lashing tail. What marked him as an unmistakable relative of his nightmare creatures was the distinct blend of organic and mechanical construction in his sinister frame.

"Hello Nergal," said Xod. "I'm here to make you an offer you can't refuse. Come with me and you will have power beyond your wildest dreams. Refuse me and you will die with the rest of your pathetic race when an apocalypse of metal desends upon your world."

* * *

Mark's blossoming coalition stood victorious on the dunes of Sacae. The Bandit King and his minions had invaded Lorca territory expecting light, uncoordinated resistance from local outriders. What they encountered was a full frontal assault from the Lorca, Kutolah, three pegasus knights, and a planeswalker. It hadn't been so much a battle as a massacre. The Bandit King and his forces had been completely routed down to the last insignificant brigand. Mark hadn't lost a single soldier. 

With one Phyrexian foe already felled, Mark was ready to move on to the next battlefield. That night, while the united forces of the Lorca and the Kutolah celebrated their victory over the bandits, Mark called Chief Hassar and Chief Dayan to his command tent (completely unnecessary for a planeswalker, but if he was going to command a mortal army he would be expected to have a mortal command center). As leaders of their respective tribes, it was their right to know what he had discovered during the battle.

_Gentlemen, there's no easy way to say this so I'm going to be blunt. The Bandit King was a Phyrexian sleeper agent. Our enemy's spies have already infiltrated Sacae, and I don't know how many of them are out there. _

Hassar and Dayan traded a concerned look. Hassar voiced both their fears. "Does this mean the metal invaders saw your powers when you battled the Bandit King, Have they caught on to our plans?"

_No, I recognized the Bandit King's true nature as soon as he approached and limited my power usage during the battle. As far as the Phyrexians know their agent was killed by a freakishly powerful mage. Even so, the Phyrexians do not suffer defeat lightly. Mark my word; their will be retaliatory strikes in Sacae. Be on you guard."_

"What do you suggest we do then?" said Dayan.

_Ultimately this does not affect my long term plans. The only way to ensure the safety of Elibe is to end the Phyrexian incursion before it becomes a full-fledged invasion. To do so I will need to travel to distant lands and convince other nations to join our cause. Tomorrow I depart for Etruria. I will take Rath with me as an ambassador of the Kutolah and Lyn as an ambassador of the Lorca. I would also have the tribesman you call Guy of the Kutolah accompany me. Etruria is a war zone and his skill with the sword could prove useful._

Hassar and Dayan nodded in agreement.

_While I am away, keep an eye out for activity in the desert. If you see anything even remotely suspicious use the summoning stones I gave you to contact me immediately. If nothing else, Phyrexia knows that Sacae is its enemy. _

**If you're a Renault fan, you're going to love Chapter 9. Etruria is going to be crazy! R&R would be appreciated. I have a hit counter. I know Xoroth and Firemind aren't the only ones reading this Fic.**


	9. What Became of Etruria

**Here's Chapter 9 of Planar Chaos on Elibe. Mark arrives in Etruria and finds out what happened to the Etrurians who fought under his command during the war against Nergal. Renault fans have many things to look forward to in this and future chapters. As usual, I don't own anything besides my own story.**

Chapter 9: What Became of Etruria

"_Listen up soldiers. We've got work to do_."

Mark's telepathic voice bellowed in the collective minds of Florina, Farina, Fiora, Lyn, Rath, and Guy. The representatives of Ilia and Sacae had just arrived in the war torn streets of Etruria less then a day after defeating the Bandit King, and already their planeswalking patron was shouting commands. Mark's breakneck pace brought forth a chorus of grumbles and complaints from the small crowd.

"_Suck it up. We're not going to beat the Phyrexians with a half-assed effort_._ Now pay attention, this is important._"

Mark floated down to ground level and brushed the mana residue from his teleportation spell off of his cloak, then continued.

"_Etruria is currently embroiled in a state of civil war. I need every able bodied soldier I can find to fight Phyrexia and with each passing day, more able bodied soldiers die in this pointless conflict. It is in our best interest to end this war as soon as possible and with minimal casualties, thus allowing Etruria to back our coalition with its full strength intact_."

"Then we should back the Emperor's efforts and use our combined might to put down the rebellions," reasoned Rath. "From a military standpoint, the imperial legions have the strength and the numbers to help us oppose Phyrexia. The rebels are skilled at guerilla warfare, but on an open battlefield they would provide little aid."

_We will do no such thing until we have more information on the Phyrexian presence in Etruria. If my theory is correct, the Phyrexians have agents in every land driving the disasters that currently plague Elibe. The time for action will come soon enough. But for now we need to focus on reconnaissance, which brings me to your current assignment. I want you to pose as a group of foreign mercenaries looking for work in Etruria. Split up into two parties and look for job opportunities on both sides. Take these devices with you. _

Mark reached into one of the many pockets in the folds of his cloak and pulled out a handful of orbed trinkets.

_These orbs have the power to identify a person's mana affinity. Observe._

Mark walked up to Lyn and held out the device. The clear orb glowed white in response to the Sacaen girl's white mana affinity. Mark walked away from Lyn and approached Florina, causing the orb to change again from white to pale blue in response to the frozen waters of Ilia.

_Phyrexians have black mana affinities. No natural sources of black mana exist on the mainland, so if the orb turns black you've probably encountered a Phyrexian sleeper agent. Your actions and these devices will help me ascertain the level of Phyrexian involvement in this conflict. _

"And what are you going to do while we run around looking for sleeper agents?" asked Farina?

_I'm going to contact an old colleague. That's all you need to know for the time being. By the way that reminds me. In my absence, Farina's in charge of this operation._

"What!?" Screamed Fiora. "Why her? Of all people, why would you leave Farina in charge of something this important?"

_Because she has more street smarts then the rest of you knuckleheads put together. Now get moving._

With that, Mark disappeared.

"Is he always this rude?" Lyn asks.

Farina shrugged. "He's an ass, but at least he knows what he's doing. I've seen worse."

* * *

Once they found a suitable recruiting center, it didn't take much to convince the imperial legions that Lyn, Rath, and Guy were a trio of Sacaen mercenaries. Fully armed and still dressed in desert garb, they certainly looked the part. Kutolah men generally didn't make good conversationalists, so Lyn spoke for the group. 

Lyn approached the decorated hero who appeared to be in charge of the facility. The officer regarded Lyn and her companions with suspicion.

"You're not from around here," said the officer. "What business do Sacaen nomads have with the Etrurian imperial guard?" Lyn noted the militaristic edge in his voice and immediately thought of Mark's blunt, gruff mannerisms. Did Mark have a military background, or was that just the way he spoke?

Carefully, Lyn delivered her line. "My name is Lyn. These are my companions, Rath and Guy. We're mercenaries from Sacae, and we've come to Etruria because we heard we could make good gold fighting rebels."

"Why would Sacaen nomads come all the way to Etruria just to look for work? Surely the desert bandits leave you plenty of job opportunities."

Lyn had no answer for the officer, but Rath thought fast and covered for her blunder.

"The Bandit King is no more. He was slain by a powerful mage, as were many of his minions. We feared that had we stayed in Sacae, we would have been out of work until the bandits reorganized and rallied behind a new leader."

"Has the Bandit King truly fallen? I've heard no such thing," said the officer sternly.

"I'm not surprised," said Lyn. "We left Sacae on short notice and traveled quickly. We probably arrived days ahead of your swiftest messengers."

"Well, we could use some help putting down the rebellion. And you three seem like a competent bunch. You're hired. Now I just need to get your paperwork in order and you can…"

"INCOMING!" shouted a panicked sentry. The sky grew dark and a distant thunder peeled the sky.

"Shit, not again!" the officer swore. "Everybody get down! The mage general strikes!"

The officer's last words were drowned out by the bolting spell that smashed through the roof of the recruiting station. The Sacaens instinctively dropped to the ground, their reflexes honed to perfection by years of responding to surprise attacks from desert bandits. Moments later another bolting spell struck. Then a third struck. Then a fourth. The barrage continued unrelenting for 26 consecutive strikes until the last support column crumbled beneath the magical assault, and all that was left of the former recruiting station was a pile of electrified rubble.

"Damn it, that's the third attack this week. A pox on House Reglay and it's disgraced marquess!" shouted the officer, spitting to emphasize his disgust. "May the bastard we once called a sage know endless torment!"

"Please excuse our ignorance of Etrurian politics," said Lyn. "But what the hell just happened and what does any of this have to do with House Reglay?"

The officer looked at Lyn in disbelief. "You come all the way from Sacae to aid us in our fight, yet you do not even know of Lord Pent's betrayal? Truly you know nothing about the nature of our foe. Lord Pent of House Reglay was once the premier magic user in all of Etruria. When the God-Emperor came to power every other ruling house acknowledged his divine authority and bowed to his will, but Lord Pent refused to subject his lands to imperial rule. He challenged the Emperor, calling him a usurper of the throne and a false god. The Emperor was furious. He sent an entire squadron of imperial guards to claim what was rightfully his and silence the blasphemous marquess of House Reglay. Pent slew them all and fled the country with his wife and his apprentice. Some time later he returned to Etruria and joined forces with the rebel leader Renault. These days, the disgraced marquess and his apprentice lead a devastating guerilla campaign against the imperial legions. No one ever sees them coming. They appear as if out of nowhere, rain death upon our soldiers with their thunderbolts and meteors, and then disappear into the shadows. No doubt this most recent attack is more of the traitor's handiwork."

The officer heaved a deep sigh and turned his back. "My apologies, but it looks as though I will be unable to complete your paperwork. I need to publish a formal account of this incident and report back to HQ. You'll have to find another recruiting station if you wish to serve Etruria." So saying the imperial officer left what remained of his post, passing the Sacaen trio as he did so. Lyn and Rath were too flustered to remember what Mark had told them as the man walked by, for their defensive maneuvers during the assault had left them in a rather compromising position. Only Guy noticed how his clear trinket turned jet black in response to the officer's approach.

* * *

Florina, Fiora, and Farina lacked the convincing appearance of their Sacaen counterparts, but the sisters knew how to get what they needed. Gaining access to a rebel meeting was more a matter of loyalty than skill. Once the sisters had made it clear that they weren't imperial spies and had no connection to the Emperor, the local militia had welcomed them with open arms and directed them to a tavern where rebel commanders were known to gather and converse. 

Nothing in the tavern had set off Mark's mana trinket, but the visit nevertheless proved fruitful. Surely Mark would be interested in the tale of a traveling bard who had stopped by the tavern to spread word of the Emperor's atrocities.

"Gather round my friends, and hear of the tragic fate that has befallen the noble House Cornwell," said the bard. "The benevolent marquess of House Cornwell offered amnesty to brother Lucius, a monk convicted of spreading the Saint's teachings in violation of the Emperor's cruel edict."

Boos and jeers erupted from the inflamed crowd upon mention of the Emperor and his edict.

The bard continued his tale. "For this crime, the crime of sheltering light's hope in these darkest of times, the Emperor sentenced House Cornwell to death. In the dead of night, fifteen berserkers razed the noble estate and hauled its occupants off to the Emperor's dungeons. When our beloved leader Saint Renault liberated the dungeon he found only three survivors: the two children of the marquess—Raymond and Priscilla—and the one monk they had sought to rescue. They had been beaten within an inch of their lives, and only through Renault's miraculous healing powers were they able to recover.

The crowd burst into applause upon mention of their beloved leader and his heroic deeds.

"Contain your applause my friends," said the bard. "There is no place for joy and celebration in this sad tale. When the son and daughter of the Marquess recovered, they said nothing. Only the monk had the courage to speak of the Emperor's atrocities. He spoke of how bones had been broken and flesh had been burnt. He spoke of how the women of House Cornwell had been violated while the men were forced to watch. He spoke of how the living had been slaughtered and the dead had been desecrated. In the monk's voice there was only the deepest regret, as though he were a man confessing his own sins. In his purest of hearts brother Lucius believed he had invited disaster upon House Cornwell by accepting their offer of amnesty; that by simply sacrificing his own life he could have saved theirs."

Now the crowd was angry. Such atrocities could not be tolerated in the holy land of Etruria. Collectively they swore to avenge the destruction of House Cornwell. Chants of "Blood for Blood!" and "Death to the Emperor!" could be heard throughout the tavern.

Even the three sisters got caught up in the spectacle and found themselves chanting with the mob, calling for the Emperor's blood.

"There is still more to the tale," said the bard. "What can we say became of the three survivors? Is that not the most important thing my friends, how the survivors cope with their ordeal?"

The crowd fell silent, eagerly awaiting the bard's next words. What had become of the survivors? How could anyone possibly cope with such an ordeal?

"Fear not for the survivors, for Renault has saved them. Just as the Second Saint overcame his own madness on the Dread Isle and returned to Etruria as Elimine's Champion, he has given the survivors of House Cornwell the strength to carry on in the Holy One's name. Brother Lucius, Commander Raymond, and Lady Priscilla now fight alongside Lord Pent and Saint Renault in their battles to liberate the holy land from the iron fist of a tyrant. Draw courage from this tale of death and despair. In your darkest hour, remember that the light of Elimine heals all wounds, and those who fight for it are never without hope for the future."

The bard concluded his tale and the crowd went wild. From the throng of voices, a single unified chant emerged.

"Long live the Saint! Long live the Saint! Long Live the Saint!"

Whether they spoke of Saint Elimine or Saint Renault, none could tell.


	10. Shades of the Past

**Do I seriously have to say I don't own Fire Emblem or Magic: The Gathering every single chapter? I've done this like 9 times already. You guys know the routine. Anyways this is Chapter 10 of Planar Chaos on Elibe. Mark finds out what happened to his home and meets someone unexpected along the way.**

**Chapter 10: Shades of the Past**

So close to home. The land felt so familiar now. At first glance it appeared as though nothing had changed. For the first time, Mark allowed himself to hope against logic and reason that the Tactician's Academy had survived the time disaster that had laid waste to the rest Elibe.

The ascendant planeswalker followed a road known only to those who had traversed it before, a road he had traveled many times in his mortal youth. The fate of the Tactician's Academy had little if any strategic importance in his war plans, but for his own sake he had to know: what had become of his discarded past? For years the Tactician's Academy had been his only home. He had been recruited at an exceptionally young age and had no knowledge of his true origins. Mark had never known his parents or the land of his birth. In his earliest memories he saw himself sitting in an academy classroom, studying battle formations and learning the code of military discipline. The instructors had called him a prodigy, and allowed him to start his lessons years before his fellow students. At age six he enrolled in his first course. At age ten he was removed from normal classes and assigned to the academy's honors program. At age twelve he could go head to head with a full team of senior students in war room simulations. At age fourteen he graduated from the academy with full honors, four years ahead of his fellow tacticians.

Of course he had neglected some aspects of his training. Because Mark had shown such remarkable aptitude in the respected field of battlefield strategy, the instructors had allowed him to bypass the academy's combat proficiency requirements. This had allowed Mark to focus all his time and effort on developing his precocious tactical skills, but had left him unschooled in the arts of self defense. He had never learned how to wield a weapon or cast a spell, and had always depended on his close circle of friends for protection from those jealous of his talents. Dave, Ben, and Mike always looked out for him. Quiet and studious, Dave had chosen the path of the mage. Burly and gung-ho, Ben had chosen the path of the warrior. Nimble and keen-eyed, Mike had chosen the path of the archer. They had stood beside him through thick and through thin. And then there had been Jess.

Jess…From the day Mark arrived at the academy Jess had been like a big sister to him. An accomplished lancer and a competent tactician in her own right, she was the closest thing Mark had ever had to a family. She had cried the night he left. She had begged him to stay at the academy. He was still so young, she had pleaded. It wasn't right that he should see the horrors of war at such an age. Years later he realized she had been begging him to stay with _her_, but how could he have known such things at the time? He was still a child. True, he had the mind of a brilliant man, but when all was said and done he was still just a boy. Even if he had known what could he have done? Could he have found the words to tell Jess how beautiful she was, how much he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. No, it had been for the best. Without so much as looking back, Mark left the tacticians academy at the tender age of fifteen with high hopes and dreams of glory.

All those old emotions returned to Mark as he walked down the lonely road of a nonexistent past. Each step brought a new flood of memories. There was the shooting range where Mike had accidentally feathered Dave. There was the sparring pit where Ben held his weekly "fight nights." There was the garden where he and Jess embraced the night he departed for Sacae.

Sacae had been a rude awakening for Mark. Outside the academy his genius went unappreciated. No one wanted a tactician who couldn't pull his weight in a fight. Oh, he got odd jobs here and there, usually either with bandits or the mercenaries hired to fight them. But no serious military unit would follow the commands of an unarmed child. And no one ever bothered watching his back like his friends had back at the academy. When his contract expired his charges would leave him and move on. One such contract with the Ganelon Bandits had left Mark stranded in the middle of nowhere with no food and no water. Left to his own devices the tactician had collapsed on the plains. If Lyn hadn't found him he'd probably be dead.

Lyn…After all they had been through together, after the journey across Sacae and the battle against Lord Lundgren and the war against Nergal, she didn't even remember him in this twisted shadow of Elibe. Even if the Tactician's Academy still stood, even if Dave and Ben and Mike and Jess were still alive, would anyone even remember him? Beyond the Arcadian sanctum did anyone have any recollection of his mortal life, or was he truly alone in the world?

Mark rounded the last bend in the road. There it was: the Tactician's Academy. At last, Mark was home. But something was wrong. Everything was wrong.

The road to the academy was bloodstained and the air reeked of glistening oil. Corpses stripped to the bone littered the ground. He should have turned back right then and there. There was nothing left for him at the academy, nothing but death and despair. But at that moment Mark's logical mind was no longer functioning, and his emotions ruled the day. This was his home. For this there would be a great reckoning. Mark would mourn his loss with tears of Phyrexian blood.

Mark advanced on the defiled academy, his immortal soul burning with fury. He would start here. Whatever presence the Phyrexians had left behind to guard their turf would fall before him. He would burn their blood. He would split their skulls. He would vaporize their remains. He would dismantle them so completely and so savagely that not a single piece of salvage would remain when the reclaimers swept through to make their harvest. Bursting through the front gates, Mark dared Phyrexia to defy him. Let the black bastards come for him. He would destroy them all.

The Phyrexians never came. They had left no patrols to guard the academy. They had simply ransacked the place and retreated with their loot of metal and flesh, seeing nothing else fit to claim as their own. Such arrogance…

There were no Phyrexians left in the academy, so why did Mark still sense an otherworldly presence in the derelict halls? Cautiously, still on his guard, the planeswalker ventured deeper. His first step brought a wave of nausea and sickness to his body, discomforts he had not felt since his ascension. Reflexively, Mark dispelled the illness with purifying bursts of green and white mana. He took a second step, then a third, then a fourth. With each step the sickness grew worse. After his seventh step, he could go no further. Mark collapsed, moaning in pain. He knew not how long he lay on the bloodied floor, his body thrashing in pain and his mind consumed by ghastly apparitions. He knew only that when he awoke, he was face to face with the one person he had come to see.

Mark rubbed his eyes in disbelief. There she was, a shade of the women he loved, just as Mark remembered her the night he left the Tactician's Academy. Somehow her ethereal silhouette only heightened her natural beauty, the otherworldly glow of her long golden hair and luminous blue eyes giving her the appearance of an angel sent from heaven to heal his pains. When he finally spoke it was with his normal voice. It did not seem right that he should speak to _her_ as though she were a generic soldier. "Jess? How…how is it possible….?"

The shade hovered past him, speaking in distant whispers. "We knew you would come to find us. When the monsters came you were hiding in Nabata, but we knew you would come…" The shade circled behind him, caressed his neck and with her lips pressed to his ear whispered "…save us Mark. It's not too late for us. The Second Sunrise restores that which was lost. Save us…"

Mark tensed. The disembodied spirit of Jess spoke of the Second Sunrise, his most potent white mana spell. The spell he had used in Sacae was a lesser variant of the Second Sunrise attuned specifically to the restoration of land, but the spell's full power could do so much more. It could reassemble shattered artifacts. It could reconfigure dispelled enchantments. It could even return the dead to the world of the living. But at full power the spell only worked in a limited timeframe. If the temporal distance between the caster and the deceased was too great, the spell would backfire. Even for a planeswalker the window of opportunity for waking the fallen was slim.

"Jess…I'm…I'm so sorry. But there are greater forces at work then us. I can not use the spell you speak of…"

"If you do not use it, I will die. All of us will die. Everyone is here Mark. We've all been waiting for you."

More shades materialized around the fallen planeswalker. There were thousands of them. Students and teachers, instructors and facilitators; some he recognized and some he did not. All of them cast their haunting, expectant gaze on Mark.

"Jess, I can't do this. Casting the Second Sunrise will reveal my presence to the Phyrexians and doom all hope of repelling the invasion. I can not condemn an entire world to death for the sake of a few. You of all people must understand that."

"Oh, I understand full well," said the shade, its voice growing louder and more severe, loosing all tones of love and affection. "I understand that you would rather save strangers and distant lands then your home and your family. When disaster struck, you were nowhere to be found. You fled to the desert and cast your protective wards on The Village of Dragons. And that was only after you failed in Lycia. Why was the academy not your first choice? Why did we deserve to die?"

Mark said nothing. Jess was right. This was his home. He should have been there for his friends and his loved one. If nothing else, he could have evacuated the academy, taken refugees to the underground ruins and built a new academy beneath the sands of Arcadia. Why had he been so short-sighted? Where had his priorities been? How could he have failed so miserably to protect those he cared for most?

"Twice now you have betrayed us Mark. First you leave the academy unshielded on the eve of the great disaster. Then you leave us unguarded when the Phyrexians invade. Your third betrayal will seal our fate in this world." The shade's voice trailed off into a desperate plea. "Cast the Second Sunrise. It is our last hope…"

* * *

Mark awoke some time later dazed and confused. Was it all a dream? Had the ghost of Jess really come to plead for her life? Mark tried to sit up but staggered over. 

"Stay down child. You took a nasty fall. You should still be resting." The voice came from a man sitting next to Mark, a man the befuddled planeswalker previously hadn't noticed.

Startled, Mark was back on his feet in an instant. The logical part of his mind was once again in control, and it was reprimanding him sharply. _That was poorly done_, Mark thought to himself. _I have no physical body. This form is a reflection of my state of mind; as such it is all the more receptive to emotional instability. I must develop better control of my thoughts and desires. If this man had been a Phyrexian he could have slain me while my guard was down. _

"Who are you?" Mark asked verbally. Still shaken from his encounter with the shades, he lacked the mental focus to use his telepathic speech. "What are you doing here?"

"Forgive my rudeness. I'm a holy man of sorts. These days I have all manner of titles and accolades, but I prefer to go by the name Renault. I came here to appease the spirits of this haunted place. You saw them, didn't you?"

Mark nodded. He had seen them many times, in life and now in terrible undeath.

"The spirits here grow restless. They have suffered much. Do not bare them ill will for the pains they have caused you, they only seek release from their own torments."

"No," Mark whispered. "Not release. They seek rebirth. They wait for me because I have the power to bring them back, but it is a power I can not use. Twice now I have been complacent in their torment. Dare I betray them a third time?"

Renault approached the planeswalker. "You have the look of a man who has known much pain in his lifetime. Come and tell me of your sufferings so I can aid you as I have aided others."

Mark sneered. "With all due respect holy man, there is little one such as yourself can do to relieve me of my burden. You know nothing of the weight I carry on my soul."

Renault laughed heartily. "Such is the lot of youth to believe that in all the world only they suffer and only they can understand. I will tell you a secret young one. Everyone has their inner demons. Everyone has their burdens. There is a fortitude of the spirit one acquires over the years, an aged understanding of the world that allows us to cope with such burdens."

"Your understanding of the world means nothing," Mark hissed. "A foe the likes of which this world has never seen comes to claim Elibe as its own, and it is my lot in life to repel them with the blood of family and friends."

"Then we are not so different, you and I. I too fight a dark foe. I too have sacrificed many for my cause and at times, I question the path I have chosen." Renault smiled. He seemed so calm, so tranquil even in this ghoulish place where a planeswalker had lost his will. "Tell me your story and I will tell you my own," said the Saint. "We will see if there is anything I can teach you."


	11. Wisdom of the Saints

**Yeah, I don't really feel like doing a fancy intro this time. I don't own Fire Emblem, I don't own Magic: the Gathering, blah blah blah, on with the show!**

**Chapter 11: Wisdom of the Saints**

Saint Renault received Mark's confessional tale in contemplative silence. The planeswalker revealed everything that had befallen him since he left the academy: his ordeals in Sacae, the war against Nergal, his mortal death and ascension to the godlike state of planeswalker, the arcane phenomenon that had altered Elibe's temporal flow, the Phyrexian invaders that had emerged from the phenomenon's time rift, and now of course the tragic fate of his beloved home and his own guilt. If any part of Mark's bizarre story came as a shock to Renault, the holy man gave no indication of his surprise. His features remained frozen in deep meditation, seemingly unresponsive to the twin plights of the time-fractured world and the tormented planeswalker who had taken it upon himself to defend it at all costs. Costs that for the first time had hit too close to home and were now beginning to weaken the planeswalker's resolve.

"Is that all?" Renault asked casually, once Mark had finished venting. The planeswalker nodded bitterly.

"Then I would have you know that you are not alone in your torments. You have chosen a path that you know at heart is righteous, but now you second guess yourself. You believe you are inadequate for the task at hand and that your shortcomings will bring unnecessary suffering to those loyal to your cause. All the while you are haunted by your past mistakes and must reconcile your failures with a guilty conscience before you can return to your quest. Am I right Mark?"

Mark said nothing but visibly flinched. Clearly, the saint's words had resonated with the planeswalker.

"Once I was like you Mark," said Renault. "I knew not my place in this world. Blinded by guilt, I could not see the road before me. In my youth I was a mercenary of great renown. I lived by the sword, earning my wages in sin by shedding the blood of my fellow man. In those days I cared only for my own heartless ambitions. So long as I received a hefty sum in gold no mission was below me. I slaughtered kin. I set fire to hearth and home. When I finally saw the light of Elimine, the revelation of sin nearly drove me to madness. The guilt you bare for the destruction of the Tactician's Academy pales in comparison to the burdens that weighed upon my soul in my darkest days."

Renault cast a mournful gaze on the academy ruins. "The loss of those closest to us; it pains us all greatly. But for men such as us, the pain is even greater. The guilt of neglect weighs upon your soul and heightens your suffering. For me, the pain was greater still. I did not simply neglect my loved ones. I turned against them and cut them down. With my own two hands, I killed my best friend and razed our village. Imagine that pain planeswalker. Imagine fighting alongside the Phyrexians that destroyed your home with naught but greed in your heart and delivering the blow that killed Jess as she looks you in the eye and with her dying breath asks 'Why?'. Only to find your true self in the aftermath and look back upon your treachery with the greatest disgust and self-loathing. Know this, and you will know what it means to suffer as I have."

"And yet here you stand today, calling yourself a holy man and preaching before a planeswalker. How does a turncoat mercenary redeem himself in his own eyes, much less the eyes of the Saint, such that he can go forth and proclaim his dedication to the pursuit of justice?"

"With great difficulty child. For me the road to redemption was a long, tumultuous journey. For the longest time, I believed I could overcome the burden of sin by practicing self-denial. I would fast for days at a time and go months without speaking a word. At times I mutilated my own body so that I could feel the pain I had caused others in my own flesh. When all else failed, I withdrew from society altogether, retreating to the solitude of my hermitage for reflection and meditation. It mattered not what I did, nothing could erase the sins of my past. Eventually my journey brought me to self-imposed exile on the Dread Isle. There I resolved to spend the remainder of my days in purgatory, cleansing my soul in preparation for that inevitable Day of Judgment when I would face Saint Elimine and answer for my sins. Alas, it was not to be. I was led astray by the Dark Druid Nergal, a fiend who possessed the power to replicate life. He promised me what Saint Elimine could not: the resurrection of those I had slain. The unmaking of my sins. Redemption. Of course, he never delivered on any of his promises. His dark rituals did not bring new life or redemption. They mocked the memories of the deceased and further corrupted my soul. At that point I believed I had fallen beyond redemption. I was determined to take my own life; to put an end to all my failures with the stroke of a dagger and erase the stain on humanity that was Renault. I would have done it, but at that moment fate intervened. As I raised my dagger above my chest and prepared to thrust home, a weariness of the mind, body, and soul crept over me. Overcome by the sensation, I fell into a deep slumber and dreamt of Saint Elimine. In my dreams the blessed Saint spoke of a vicious battle in the holy lands of Etruria. There she said I would find redemption for myself and for countless others. There I would be known not as a traitor or a murderer, but as a savior. When I awoke, my spirit was at peace and I found this at my side."

Renault reached into his flowing robes and pulled out a shimmering golden tome. A halo of heavenly light adorned its sacred texts. Mark recognized the tome instantly.

"Aureola," whispered the awestruck planeswalker. "The Light of the Saint; truly this is a miraculous find. You say you found this next to you when you awoke from a dream in which you spoke to the Saint?"

Renault nodded.

"So then you are…it is true. The second coming is upon us, Elimine's heir has returned to the holy land as foretold in the scriptures to lead her people in their hour of need."

"I have never made such a claim," said Renault. "I am nothing more than a redeemed sinner who recognizes a noble cause when he sees one. The masses believe I am the prophesized Second Saint. If they find comfort in this belief, so be it. They have made me their savior and for better or for worse, it is a role I must fill. I will meet their expectations to the best of my ability, although honestly I don't think I'm up to the task."

"Not unlike myself," said Mark. "It is as you say Renault I have much to learn from you, about the world and the condition of the soul."

"And it appears I have much to learn from you planeswalker, about the nature of our common enemy," said Renault. "But first, I would be sure you understand all that I have told you. Learn from my mistakes planeswalker; be enlightened by the wisdom revealed to me through the words of the one true saint after years of ascetic living opened my soul to her divine presence. If nothing else know this one fundamental truth; the unwavering pursuit of justice is the only form of redemption you will find in this life. By devoting your life to a righteous cause, you honor the fallen and yourself. When the war is won and the enemies of Elimine are driven from this land, nothing else will matter. The dawn of victory will shine over all my sins and failures and will purify my soul. On that glorious day, the light of Elimine will be restored to Etruria and I will find my redemption. However, if ever my spirit grows weary, if ever I abandon the cause, all will be lost. The sacrifices I've made will all be in vain, my fallen comrades will be dishonored, and my soul will be further burdened. Heed my words and stay the course planeswalker, for your situation is very much like my own. The day Phyrexia is driven from Elibe nothing else will matter. The world will be saved and everything else will seem insignificant. But if you abandon the fight and Phyrexia conquers all, there will be no hour of victory and all your sacrifices will be meaningless. Dave and Ben and Mike and Jess and all the others would have died for nothing. Do you understand Mark? Do you know now what must be done Mark?"

"…Yes," said the planeswalker. "Phyrexia must be stopped at all costs. I know this. I've always known this. But what of the Second Sunrise? Your best friend, the one who died by your hand; what was his name?"

"His name was Kishuna," said Renault.

"Tell me this Renault," said the planeswalker. "If you had the opportunity to bring Kishuna back from the grave, even if it would bring great harm to your cause, would you do it? Could you truly bring yourself to abandon a loved one who died because of your poor judgment?"

"…No. I could not. I would do anything to bring him back. That was why I agreed to follow Nergal, and look what became of my moment of weakness. I made a pact with the devil and he gave me a demon."

"But I am not Nergal," Mark said simply. "He was a Dark Druid, his strength came from the essence of death. I am a planeswalker, my strength comes from the essence of the land. My spell will not mimic Nergal's abominations. He couldn't restore a shattered life. I can."

"But at what cost Mark? You strike me as a logical thinker. Consider the logical chain of events. Suppose you cast the Second Sunrise and the spell went off without a hitch, what then? The Phyrexians would find you and force you into a premature confrontation. Inevitably you would lose. You said so yourself, nothing short of the united armies of Elibe fighting under your command could combat the Phyrexian invasion. So, what becomes of the resurrected Tactician's Academy after your coalition is defeated and Phyrexia conquers all?"

"…Yeah, I see your point." Mark conceded. "Doesn't really make much sense does it?" The planeswalker sighed. Loss was inevitable in war, he knew this. But this was one loss he hoped he'd never have to incur. "Well then, what would you suggest Renault? You say you recognize a righteous cause when you see one. Can I assume that means you have no misgivings about joining forces with the coalition?"

"That depends very much on the outcome of the war in Etruria. If the rebels are victorious and the imperials are overthrown, I will be in a position to pledge my nation's loyalty. For the time being I must focus my efforts on defeating the Emperor who fashions himself a god." Renault paused. "You believe Dundor the Usurper draws his strength from Phyrexia?"

Mark hesitated for a moment, just long enough to mentally contact his field agents and quickly glean their minds for information. "Yes," replied Mark. "I'm sure of it. My operatives have detected several Phyrexian sleeper agents among the imperial ranks. Emperor Dundor is definitely working in league with Phyrexia.

"Well then," said Renault. "It seems as though an alliance of convenience is in order. Together we'll break Phyrexia's hold on Etruria, liberate the holy lands, and go on to fight Phyrexia abroad with the united strength of Elibe at our back. We'll start with Emperor Dundor and work our way down from the top to end this war as quickly and bloodlessly as possible."

Mark nodded his approval. "A sound plan. So, what exactly do you have in mind for the Emperor?"

"A simple assassination mission," replied the Saint. "I should only need a dozen or so competent agents to do this right. I'll be sending the survivors of House Cornwell and the loyalists of House Reglay. Pent, Louise, Erk, Raymond, Priscilla, and Lucius are by far my most capable fighters. That makes six…"

"In that case, I will send representatives of the coalition to fight beside your rebels," said Mark. "Florina, Farina, and Fiora will fight in the name of Ilia. Rath and Guy will fight in the name of the Kutolah, and Lyn will fight in the name of the Lorca. I believe that makes a dozen Renault, and a rather diverse dozen at that. Etrurian rebels fighting alongside Ilians and Sacaens; solid grounds for an Etrurian entry into my coalition…"

"…and solid grounds for the Emperors unmaking," finished Renault. "If all goes according to plan, a tyrant will fall and a third nation will rally behind Elibe's true savior." So saying, Renault bowed to Mark. "I have gazed into your soul planeswalker, and I now know you to be a man of just convictions. If you are indeed the one who is destined to vanquish Phyrexia from this world, I believe the future of Elibe is in good hands."

"And if you are indeed the heir of Saint Elimine, I believe likewise for the future of learning and enlightenment. I look forward to working with you Saint Renault," said Mark.

"The feeling is mutual," said the Saint.

**Yeah, I know. The past few chapters have pretty much been character development for Mark, Renault, and the Etrurians. Don't worry; I'll be getting back to the action chapters pretty soon. As always, reviews are appreciated. **


	12. The Enemy of my Enemy

**I think this may be my longest chapter yet. That's not really saying much since most of my chapters are pretty short anyway, but whatever. It's still a milestone. Same routine as always: I don't own FE or MTG or anything else that I'm now officially too lazy to type without using an acronym. **

**Chapter 12: The Enemy of my Enemy…**

"Greetings Commander Raven," said Lord Pent as his fellow commander and battlefield companion entered the main room of the rebel hideout with his little sister and his monk friend. "How goes the war effort on the frontlines?"

Raven didn't even acknowledge the sage's greeting. He pushed the former Marquess of House Reglay out of his way, muttered a few curses, and headed straight for his liquor cabinet.

"Just ignore him," sighed Priscilla. "He's in one of his moods. An entire platoon of Dundor's guardsmen had him surrounded and now he's mad at us of all people because we had the nerve to warp him out of there."

"On a side note, we're going to need a new rescue stave," said Lucius, who was holding out a gnarled staff tipped with a cracked, smoldering gem. "I don't think we're getting anymore use out of this one."

Pent examined the ruined staff and shook his head "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get this kind of equipment? Honestly, it's not like I can just walk into any shop in Etruria and buy a rescue stave. Most stores don't even sell items of this quality. To say nothing of the fact that I'm a wanted outlaw and risk my life every time I show my face in public."

Priscilla shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry Pent. I know how hard you work to make sure we all have decent gear. You know we wouldn't have used it unless we really needed to…"

"Bullshit!" yelled Raven, who had already downed half a bottle of whiskey and was well on his way to the early stages of drunkenness. "I could have taken them all on, I had the high ground!"

"There were thirty of them and they had you pinned against a wall," said Priscilla matter-of-factly. "You were about to get your ass handed to you."

"So?" Raven took another swig of whiskey. "I still could've won if you two sissies hadn't backed down and forced a retreat!"

"We just saved your life you big jerk, why are YOU yelling at US," shouted Priscilla. "Remind me again, whose idea was it to charge the imperial guard head on with no plan and only a handful of new recruits?"

"Not my fault our soldiers suck," shrugged Raven. "Maybe if we actually had some decent fighters instead of a girly-boy monk…"

"Oh enough of you!" shouted Lucius. So saying, he discarded his ruined stave, grabbed Priscilla's silencing staff, and pointed it at the drunken hero.

"No!" hollered Pent. Before the monk could do anything drastic Pent knocked the stave out of his hands and confiscated the valuable weapon. "You three have wasted enough of House Reglay's resources for one day. Now please, just leave me be. Louise will be arriving shortly, and I wish to have a more civilized scene when I see my wife for the first time in two months. Do I make myself clear?"

The survivors of House Cornwell apologized and left immediately. They knew better then to cross Lord Pent. The magic general didn't anger easily, but on the rare occasions when he lost his temper Pent left a lasting impression.

Raven, Priscilla, and Lucius hastily exited the main room, leaving behind a rather annoyed Pent. "Children," muttered the sage. "This army is being run by children."

"Technically this isn't an army," said Erk, who had chosen that time to lift his head out of his book and throw his two-cents into the conversation. "Armies are state sanctioned military powers. We do not have the support of Etruria's recognized government and in fact stand in direct opposition to it's agenda. By definition that would make us..."

"…Yes I know, a rebellion," said Pent. "Call it what you want, the fact of the matter doesn't change. We have spoiled children leading half of our forces and that does NOT bode well for our cause. Still, I must bow to Lord Renault's wishes on this matter."

"Lord Renault is a wise man," said Erk. "Surely he has seen something that we have missed in these new recruits if he promotes them so rapidly and hands them such responsibility."

"That's what I keep telling myself," said Pent. "And yet I grow weary of their antics. I hope Renault knows what he's doing. I'm beginning to suspect…"

"…Suspect what, Lord Pent?" said Renault, who had just arrived at the rebel base with a large bundle of important looking documents and had caught the sage of guard.

"Ah…nothing Blessed One. I was just discussing the aptitude of our new field commanders with my apprentice."

"Of course, the heirs of House Cornwell," said Renault. "They are survivors of an unspeakable ordeal and will need time to…adjust…to their new settings. Surely you understand such things Marquess Reglay."

Pent bowed. "My apologies Renault, I meant no disrespect to the survivors of House Cornwell."

"Get up Pent, you need not bend your knee to me. There is no need for such formalities among allies." Renault walked over to the table in the center of the room, cleared away Raven's whiskey bottles, and laid down his collection of maps and schematics. "Has Lady Louise arrived yet?" asked the Saint.

Pent was just about to respond that she hadn't when a soft feminine voice called out "You can't get rid of me that easily boys." Shortly thereafter Louise dropped down from the rafters, landed gracefully on her feet, and delivered a small curtsy. "Did you miss me?"

"Does an angel miss his wings?" Said Pent in his most affectionate tone, rushing forward to embrace his wife.

Louise chuckled "Two months and that's the best line you could come up with? Louise teased. "You're getting rusty."

While the reunited couple exchanged kisses and loving words, Renault regarded the spot where Louise had made her dramatic entry. "Any particular reason you decided to use the secret entrance?" asked the Saint.

Louise shrugged. "Its there, might as well use it for something. By the way, here's that status report you wanted." Louise reached into her satchel and pulled out a large, tightly sealed envelope adorned with a large decorative "R" and the official state seal of House Reglay. "Most of it is just notes on imperial troop levels and their movements in the contested territories. All the usual info: a list of casualties, scouting reports from my archers, nothing out of the ordinary.

Renault opened the envelope and sifted through its contents. Halfway through the report his gaze settled upon one rather interesting paragraph.

"What's this? Renault inquired. "It says here the Emperor himself was spotted leaving the Capital and is heading east for an unknown destination?"

"Unknown at the time of the report," said Louise. "We now have reason to believe that Dundor the Usurper is traveling to one of his pleasure palaces in Echanni Province."

Renault was familiar with that area. It was a remote and mostly unsettled highland region in eastern Etruria that encompassed much of the Sacaen border. From the west it was accessible only via a heavily wooded highland trail commonly known as Savagewood Pass. "Excellent," said Renault. "This new information is just what we needed. We can ambush Dundor's imperial procession in Savagewood and put an end to the madman's reign of terror once and for all."

Pent obviously didn't share his leader's optimism. "Impossible," said the sage. "According to this report the Emperor is traveling with the best of the royal guard and his own elite forces. Dundor alone is more than our rebels can handle. The man wields the legendary axe of The Berserker and is said to be the mightiest warlord the Western Isles have seen since the Dragon Slayer himself. Dundor accompanied by a thousand of the finest soldiers in Etruria is untouchable."

Louise agreed wholeheartedly with her husband. "We have neither the manpower nor the mobile capability to ambush the imperials in Savagewood. By the time we reach Echanni Province Dundor will have already cleared the pass. And even if we could set up the ambush in time, we would barely be able to make a dent in the Emperor's armor. The imperials would win by sheer numbers.

"You need not worry about distance or numbers," said Renault. Our new ally will address these problems. His powers will be more than enough to tip the scales in our favor."

Pent raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "New ally?"

_That would be me._

If the Reglays were startled by the voice that invaded their minds and spoke directly into their thoughts, then they were completely taken aback by the teleportation nexus that opened over their heads and dumped a collection of Ilian knights and Sacaen warriors into their secret base. The source of the voice materialized shortly thereafter.

_My name is Mark I'm a spellcaster of sorts, not unlike yourself Lord Pent. We share a common enemy: the dark overlords of Phyrexia. Dundor is their puppet in Etruria. I'm going to help you defeat your foe. Then you're going to help me defeat his Phyrexian masters. This is the agreement I have reached with your leader, Saint Renault._

"Mark is a planeswalker," Renault elaborated. "A being of nearly limitless power; his abilities are unlike anything I have ever encountered in my long and as you know, very tumultuous life. He has knowledge of a dark race that builds hidden armies across Elibe in preparation for a global invasion. Left unopposed, the dark ones will exterminate all life on Elibe and use us for spare parts in their machines. Mark's going to make sure that doesn't happen and we're going to help him. But first, he's going to help us assassinate the Emperor."

Had this information come from anyone else Pent, Louise, and Erk would have questioned his sanity. But Renault was…well…Renault was Renault. He was the Second Saint, the heir apparent of Saint Elimine. It was not their place to doubt his judgment.

Renault turned to the planeswalker "Anything to add Mark?"

_Nope, that about sums things up. As for your plans I can transport you to Savagewood anytime you wish. Once there I will be unable to draw mana from other lands lest I reveal myself to Phyrexia, but the green and red mana of Echanni Province should prove more than sufficient for the coming battle. When would you like to move out?_

Renault thought it over. "The Reglays and the Cornwells have just returned from extended tours of duty across the domains. They need time to rest and I need time to prepare. Give us a day or two and we'll be ready."

Mark scowled. Clearly that was not the answer he had been hoping for.

"Come now planeswalker, be reasonable," said Renault. "Have you forgotten so soon what it means to be human? We mortals need our rest. Besides, large armies take time to mobilize. What's the worst Phyrexia can do in 48 hours?"

There were a number of ways Mark could have answered that question, all of which were decidedly unpleasant and best left unmentioned. For the time being, Mark decided to remain silent.

* * *

Xod emerged from the Dragon's Gate and tasted the air. It tasted of ash and sulfur. This was a land ruled by elemental dragons. Perfect. 

His newest minion hadn't even left the workshop yet and already he was proving useful. With his last human breath Nergal had spoken of the Dragon's Gate, a portal to a pocket world inhabited by dragons that had fled Elibe during some ancient war. Ancient only by human standards; a thousand years meant nothing to the Phyrexian overlord. Xod was one of the first Phyrexians, a healer from the Thran Empire who had pledged his loyalty to Yawgmoth in times before there had even been a Phyrexia. For Xod, a thousand years was but a fraction of his absurdly prolonged lifespan.

Among flesh creatures, dragons were exceptionally well designed. There enormous size, tremendous strength, impenetrable scales, and lethal breath made them a force to be reckoned with wherever they appeared. Even their lifespan was significantly longer then that of the other mortal races. Phyrexia had to acknowledge that in this one specific instance, natural selection had worked out quite nicely (inefficient as always, but quite nicely nonetheless).

Phyrexia admired the might of dragons so much that it sought to emulate them in the form of dragon engines, colossal war machines that rivaled and in many aspects surpassed their natural kin. Dragon engines were among the most fearsome beasts ever assembled on Phyrexia, but they had one major drawback. Like all Phyrexian constructs they were part organic and part artificial, but unlike most other designs the dragon engine had very specific requirements. The organic components of a dragon engine could only be assembled from genuine dragon parts, otherwise the machine as a whole wouldn't function properly. Normally this limited production capabilities, as large dragon populations were hard to come by. But with a few simple directions from Nergal, Xod had overcome that obstacle. He would harvest his required parts in this pocket world and build an army of dragon engines to aid him in his conquest of Elibe. Many of his lesser minions would die subduing the dragons, but in the end it mattered not. Elibe's mortal armies were small and pathetic. Once his dragon engines were fully assembled, they wouldn't stand a chance.

Xod's arrival had not gone unnoticed. A large fire dragon that had been perching on the dimensional gateway swooped down on crimson wings, landed in front of the Phyrexian, and delivered a warning in flame tongue. Xod understood the language well enough; it was more or less a universal dialect of draconic speech. On every world where there were dragons, there were dragons that breathed fire and spoke the language of flame and fury.

Xod did not back down. This foe was nothing. Yawgmoth had given him the power to vanquish avatars, demigods, and planeswalkers. Seeing that his foe had no intention of fleeing, the dragon took a deep breath and prepared to exhale his killing flames.

The flames never came. The great dragon exhaled and succeeded only in vomiting up vast quantities of blackened blood. Terrified and in excruciating pain, the dragon looked down and saw the cause of the problem: a huge gaping hole in his throat where his flame sac should have been. Already the wound was starting to turn necrotic.

"Looking for this?" Xod taunted, waving the still pulsating gland before its original owner.

In the time it had taken the dragon to draw a single breath Xod had leapt into action, latched on to the fire dragons fully extended neck, shredded several layers of dragonscale, ripped a vital flame producing gland from the dragon's body, injected a life ending toxin directly into the dragon's blood, and returned to his original position. So swift was the Phyrexian's attack that to the dragon it appeared as though, he hadn't even moved. But there could be no mistaking it; Xod had indeed moved and he had landed a fatal blow. The dragon staggered back as its body surrendered to the black poison, then collapsed altogether as it breathed its last.

**Author's Notes**

**Alright, there are two things in this chapter that I think I should explain for the benefit of readers who have never read an MTG novel.**

**First, I would like to explain the significance of the dragon engine. As I've already mentioned the dragon engine is a biomechanical Phyrexian construct that emulates the physical appearance and behavior of a dragon, with significant cybernetic enhancements. These creatures have traditionally played a very important role in MTG novels. In Artifacts Cycle, the Brother's War began when Mishra (brother of Urza Planeswalker) gained control of a rogue dragon engine and used it to wage war on his brother's kingdom. For the duration of the Brother's War, strategic deployment of dragon engines remained a vital part of Mishra's war effort. In Mercadian Masques, a dragon engine that survived the Brother's War is worshipped by the citizens of Mercadia who believe he is the god Ramos. The powerstones that animate the dragon engine Ramos become vital components of the arcane mechanisms that power skyship **_**Weatherlight**_**. In Invasion Cycle, the Phyrexians deploy vast armies of dragon engines in their attempts to conquer Dominaria. None of this is relevent to the FanFic and is only intended to give readers with no knowledge of MTG a greater appreciation of the dragon engine.**

**Second, I should probably explain what I meant when I said Xod was a healer from the Thran Empire. Long story short, the Thran were the oldest and most advanced civilization on Dominaria. Before he ascended to godhood on Phyrexia, Yawgmoth was an exiled citizen of the Thran Empire (exiled for a long list of disturbing crimes, most of which involve illegal experimentation on living subjects). Immediately after he became Lord of Phyrexia (this is about 9,3000 years ago on the MTG timescale) Yawgmoth declared war on the Thran Empire and won. He gave the Thran a choice: become Phyrexians or die. Those who became Phyrexians and proved their loyalty to Yawgmoth were given insane powers by the dark god of Phyrexia. This may help readers to the extent that it fleshes out (no pun intended) Xod's past. **


	13. The Savagewood Hunt

**I got lazy for a few days, but I'm still writing. You know the drill, I don't own shit. I'm not even going to bother typing the whole disclaimer out. You know exactly what I'm talking about.**

**Chapter 13: The Savagewood Hunt**

Weary and battered, Dundor's imperial forces marched on through the winding mountain roads of Echanni Ridge. Everything that possibly could have gone wrong had gone wrong on this godforsaken journey. First there had been the storm. The army had been working its way up a particularly steep mountain when out of nowhere, the cloudless sky had darkened and the heavens had unleashed their fury. Lightning flashed and imperials died by the scores. The initial scene bore all the signs of Lord Pent's meddling, but this awesome display seemed beyond even the magic general's capabilities. The storm was too natural. Too perfect. Pent could only summon the bolt that dealt the killing blow. Tornado wind and torrential rain on this scale was beyond him. No sage had that kind of power. Athos himself could not have conjured up such a tempest.

Then came the landslide. The accursed storm brought the entire mountain down on top of them. It was the strangest thing. An avalanche of saturated earth came crashing down, steering itself around the mountain to strike the advancing imperial forces head on. No one had escaped the landslide unwounded. The lucky among them rose from the mud bleeding and gasping for air. The less fortunate would forever remain buried by the mountain. Still they marched on. Over the mountains, through the valleys, onward to Savagewood Pass they marched in Dundor's name.

Echanni Valley proved even less hospitable then the highland roads. Once again bizarre weather impeded the imperial's progress, this time in the form of a thick fog. Dundor's troops marched in circles, unable to see two feet in front of them. Paths shifted constantly; thickets collapsing to reveal a new road as explosive vegetation suddenly sprouted to block an old one. Trained navigators wandered haplessly through the valley like blindfolded children in an unstable maze. All the while, possessed beasts besieged the imperials from all sides. They cooperated and fought with humanlike intelligence—wolves, bears tigers, gorillas, boars, serpents, wolverines, elephants, rhinos, raptors, giant spiders—mindless creatures united and coordinated in battle by a greater will. They seemed bigger and stronger then ordinary beasts. Gossamer strands of green magic clung to the bestial horde like fine silk, empowering them with savage strength. Against such power the soldiers of the imperial legion could do nothing. They bled. They died. They lay forgotten as Dundor and his elite guard pressed on, undeterred by their massive loss.

Dundor cared not for the nameless hundreds slain by beast and by element. Etrurian soldiers were nothing more then glorified meat shields. They had served their purpose. His elite guard, the core unit of Western Isle warlords who accompanied him on all his campaigns and enforced his will throughout the domains was all that mattered. And they had all survived.

The warlords exchanged savage smiles, bragged of their exploits, and mocked the fallen.

"Fitting," said Dundar, wiping the blood of a slain bear from Armads and applying it to his face as a set of war stripes "that these weakling Etrurian's should perish because they lack the strength to save their own skins. If one among them possessed the might of a warlord they would still be standing."

His fellow warlords cackled and spat on the mangled corpse of an Etrurian mage. He had been mauled to death by a tiger. No warlord worth his weight in steel would allow himself to be slain by a mindless animal. It was a contemptible death; as such this man deserved nothing but their deepest contempt.

"Odd though, I have never seen such behavior among beasts," noted Dundor. "They're stronger and smarter than any I have ever encountered. I'm tempted to set up camp here and turn this into a hunting expedition….but you know how I love my palaces. Being a military dictator has its perks you know.

"Yeah." shouted one of his fellow warlords. "Free booze and free wenches for all of us. Etrurians know nothing of the ways of war, but they make their rum strong and their women tight. That's good enough for me."

To this sort of commentary their was much laughter and much vulgar rejoicing as the victorious warlord's turned their back to the carnage of Echanni Valley and entered Savagewood Pass.

* * *

_They're in, _announced Mark. 

His followers looked on in awe. Now more than ever, bathed in the mesmerizing afterglow of primal magic, the planeswalker's superhuman features stood out among his peers. It had taken an immeasurable application of red mana to manipulate the elemental forces of Echanni Ridge, and an even greater application of green mana to summon, enhance, and direct his bestial minions in Echanni Valley. The scintillating aura of emerald and crimson energy that now enveloped his body served as a testament to the godlike power he invoked with little more than concentrated thought.

"How many?" asked Renault

_Only thirteen. Dundor and a dozen of his elite warlords. The common soldiers were completely decimated. Hopefully that will be the last great loss of life in the Etrurian Civil War. Once the emperor is dead the fighting should cease, provided of course that there is a suitable figurehead to fill the power void left by his downfall._

"I assume that means me?"

_Naturally. Etruria must have a rallying point of nationalistic pride if the chaotic aftermath of civil war is to be quelled quickly and bloodlessly. You will inevitably become that rallying point Renault. This war has turned you into quite the folk hero._

"I'll worry about that when the time comes. For now let's focus on the task at hand. In numbers we're even with Dundor. How do we stand in terms of power?"

_Right now his warlords have the overwhelming advantage over your rebels, but once my enchantments kick in you'll have more then enough strength to take them down. _

Mark wasn't taking any chances on this mission. He would not have a repeat of the Kreiger Fortress incident, where three of his soldiers had been unable to take down a single well trained enemy. He had enhanced his entire party with giant's strength and lightning reflexes; red mana enchantments that would give them strength, toughness, and speed on par with the strongest warlord. Green regeneration enchantments ensured that nothing short of a killing blow would take his soldiers out of commission. Pent, Erk, and Priscilla received the added benefits of a lavamancer aura that greatly improved the spell penetration of their fire magic. Mark had prepared them well for this fight.

_Enchantments will activate as soon as you engage hostile forces. They have a duration of exactly one hour. It shouldn't take that long to complete this mission, but if for some reason your fight lasts longer than your enchantments I can recast them at any time. You know what to do. Ambush the enemy and hit them where it hurts_

* * *

Leaves rustled. Twigs snapped. Spellbooks opened and swords emerged from their scabbards. Thirteen ridiculously over-muscled warlords heard the sounds of advancing hostiles and hefted their massive weapons. 

"Puny mainlanders!" bellowed Dundor. "Are you so eager to die that you would challenge a host of warlords in their own camp!?"

No Response.

Dundor rose from his seat and hoisted Armads. "Cowards, face me if you dare! I am Dundor, son of Ungrok, heir to the Dragonslayer and mightiest of warlords. Show yourselves and prepare die!"

Still no response.

Dundor's elite guard kept their brave bows trained on the surrounding wilderness. Somewhere out there an enemy was preparing an attack, and each warlord was eager to claim the rites of first blood as his own.

Imagine their surprise when the attack came not from the forest, but from the skies above in the form of a trio of pegasus knights. They swooped in without preamble, ravaged the camp with a flurry of light, wind, and fire from their magical weapons, and fled in three different directions before the warlords could return fire. The warlords were stunned. Who wouldn't be if they were fighting creatures thought to be extinct for 300 years?

"Don't just stand there looking stupid, find those flying whores and bring them down!" commanded Dundor. "I want those wenches for my palace. The ones that try to put up a fight are always the most fun to break."

And so the warlords split up to find and capture the three knights of Ilia, just as the coalition had planned. The ambush squads moved into position. So far, so good.

* * *

To the east, four warlords went sprinting after Farina. They found her waiting for them in a small clearing, lance at the ready, staring them down. The warlords advanced on their prey 

"Any last words as a free wench?"

Farina just flashed a confident smile. "Any of you bastards ever fought an eastern swordsmaster before? Because from what I hear they consistently outperform your chicken-shit warriors whenever they crossblades."

Before the warlords could even begin to ponder the meaning of Farina's words they were on the defensive against Sacaen steel. Lyn unsheathed the Mani Katti and charged into the fray. Guy hacked away with his Wo Dao. Even Rath did away with his usual choice of ranged weaponry in favor of his father's scimitar.

"She's right you know," taunted Guy. "Master Karel cut down an entire clan of you slowpokes and walked away without a scratch. Your swiftest warriors couldn't even touch him."

Four enraged warlords turned their blades against the pupil of the sword demon who had slain their brethren on the Western Isles. Axes rose and fell, but not one ever hit its mark. Guy was just too fast. His inherent speed coupled with the lightning reflexes bestowed upon him by a planeswalker's favor made him a demon unto himself. With speed that would have put Karel himself to shame he dodged, slashed, and vaulted over his enemy. Four on one, the warlordss struggled to keep up with this son of Sacae. His sword bit first through armor. Then through flesh and bone. Lyn, Rath, and Farina followed up with killing blows.

"Too easy," laughed Guy, wiping the blood from his blade. "I thought these lemmings knew how to fight."

"Is that the enchantment talking or is Karel's influence finally starting to rub off on you?" smirked Rath.

Guy shrugged "Does it matter? We just killed four elite warlords in the blink of an eye. Hell, we probably would have done it without any of Mark's fancy enchantments. At this rate I'll succeed Master Karel as the greatest swordsman in all of Sacae in no time, just you watch."

Lyn rolled her eyes. "Stroke your ego on your own time boys, we're supposed to be regrouping for an attack on the emperor. Come on, let's get out of here and find the others.

Farina chuckled. Leave it to the woman to show some good sense while the useless men patted themselves on the back for an easy kill.

* * *

To the west, the warlords chasing Fiora were now face to face with the fabled terror of the people's rebellion. 

"Pent, how dare you show your face here traitor! Have you come to beg for mercy, or do you still believe you can match the might of our Emperor?"

Pent silenced the lead warlord's bravado with a wave of the hand. That one simple gesture was all it took to freeze the man in place and call a pillar of fire down on his head. At first the glowing talisman around the warlord's neck seemed to repel the flames. Then Mark's lavamancer aura kicked in and Pent's Elfire spell achieved its desired effect, vaporizing the brute on the spot. Where once there had stood a mighty warlord, now there was only a pile of fused armor and charred bone.

"Anyone else feeling brave?" taunted Pent.

The remaining warlords turned tail and ran…directly into a volley of fireballs and silver arrows. Erk and Louise had caught them with their guard down.

Fiora landed and the area was quickly secured.

"Fascinating magic," commented Pent, experimentally tossing an enhanced flame from one hand to the other. "I'll have to ask Mark to teach me these spells. If only the common mage could be trained to tap into this ancient power he calls mana, imagine how this could enhance our understanding of the nature of magic."

Erk concurred. Already he was brainstorming possible amendments to the currently accepted codices of anima magic, citing relevant passages from the arcane scriptures to support his theories. Pent made an occasional correction, but for the most part seemed pleased with the young mage's understanding of the material.

Louise had no idea what either of them was talking about. She felt as though she were on the outside of an inside conversation, as was often the case when Erk and Pent started talking about magic. But she understood the greater meaning of their conversation well enough. Once the dust of battle settled and everything was in order, master and apprentice alike were going to have a field day experimenting with Mark's powers.

* * *

To the north, the warlords pursuing Florina encountered the last person in the world you'd want to meet while said person was under the influence of magic that enhanced ferocity and bloodlust. The fact that this person also held the warlords personally responsible for the torture, rape, and murder of his entire family didn't help either. 

This was Raven's fight. He had explicitly forbid Lucius and Priscilla from interfering. The fallen prince of House Cornwell would have his vengeance if it killed him.

"Is this your first battle little boy?" taunted the main warlord "You do know your supposed to bring a weapon, right? Did daddy forget to pack you a sword?"

Raven ignored the chorus of snickers that followed and cracked his knuckles. "I don't need a weapon to kill you. I'll rip you limb for limb with my bare hands."

"Big talk from a little man. Rip this punk!"

The warlord took aim with his longbow and sent an arrow flying straight at Raven's chest. The Etrurian noble didn't even bother dodging the attack. He took the shot right between the ribs and without flinching, pulled the arrow out and snapped it in half. Green mana went to work mending the wound immediately.

Western Isle warlords would not be intimidated by such a display. "So, a kid throws on some fancy healing magic and thinks he can cross blades with the Dragonslayer Clan?" said the warlord who had fired the impotent shot. "Is that what passes for skill in Etruria. No wonder none of you know how to fight." The warlord discarded his longbow and unsheathed his broadsword. "No matter, you'll die all the same. Let's see you try to heal a severed head. Taste my blade!"

The warlord charged and swung wildly. This time, Raven threw himself into the swing, caught the warlord's sword arm in his iron grip, and twisted until tendons snapped. The warlord's blow missed completely. His broadsword fell to ground and his sword arm hung limp at his side. He still had plenty of fight left in him, but Raven would have none of it. He was done with this fool. Raven's free hand shot out to meet the warlords jaw with a powerful uppercut. The sledgehammer blow shattered bone and sent the man flying. His body fell lifeless to the ground…halfway across the clearing.

The three remaining warlords attempted to mob Raven. To his credit Raven was smart enough to realize that three vs. one unarmed generally isn't a good idea, even with powerful enchantments on your side. Thinking fast the young hero brandished the broadsword of his slain foe and attacked the oncoming warlords with a cleaving blow. With a single swipe he decapitated two warlords and sent the third one running for his life.

"Oh no you don't!" yelled Raven, taking off after the fleeing warlord. "You'll fight me and die like the rest of them. Get back here!"

That set off a red flag for Raven's companions. "Lord Raven!" hollered Lucius. "We're supposed to regroup up ahead. We can't have you running around Savagewood, chasing down stray combatants. You're going to cause such problems!"

"Can it Lucuis! That bastard's going to die, and I'm going to be the one who kills him. I'll meet up with you when I'm done." So saying, Raven took off to pursue his enemy.

"Lord Raven, you mustn't!" pleaded Lucius, who was now in a full sprint chasing after his reckless friend. Priscilla was also attempting to chase after her brother, although she was unaccustomed to running on foot and lagged far behind her monk companion.

Priscilla was halfway across the clearing when something hit her hard. Very hard. The valkyrie staggered back and fell into the chokehold of the now one-armed warlord Raven had engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

"Your friend is strong," barked the warlord in a savage, guttural tone. "That said, he's also incredibly stupid. Leaving behind such a pretty little wench before checking to make sure all his enemies were truly dead? That's an amateur's loss. And you know what they say." The warlord ran his fingers through Priscilla's hair and made his intentions known. "One man's loss is another man's gain."

Priscilla struggled to free herself but couldn't break out of the man's grip. She lacked her brother's physical strength. Even with Mark's power flowing through her, even with the warlords disfiguring injury, he was still stronger than her. She couldn't even scream. She could barely breath in his foul grasp. All she could do was pray…

"UNHAND HER!"

The warlord looked up just it time to see the tip of a Woa Do pierce his skull. Guy had arrived on the scene, and not a moment to soon. Gently he removed the dead man's arm from Priscilla's throat and helped her to her feet.

"You okay?" he asked.

Priscilla nodded, still in shock. Raven chose that rather untimely moment to appear with a broadsword in one hand and a severed head in the other.

"Back!" he announced. "What did I miss?"

Priscilla just stared at him incredulously. Right now, she wanted nothing more then to be able to beat some sense into her idiot brother. She settled for slapping him across the face and walking away arm-in-arm with Guy.

It took a few moments for the events to register in Raven's brain. His little sister had just slapped him and walked away. With another man. Touching.

"Lucius," Raven growled. "What the hell just happened?"

Lucius shrugged. "Go ask the wind." With that, the monk turned his back and walked away with Priscilla and Guy.

* * *

Dundor and Renault faced each other. For the longest time they said not a word. These were men who spoke best through acts of war: a bloodthirsty warlord and a renowned mercenary. Of course only one still held his current title. Renault had given up the ways of the sword and had resolved to never again shed the blood of his fellow man. But in this one case, he was willing to make a very big exception. 

"It's over Dundor. Your reign of terror ends here, by my hand." For the first time in more then a hundred years, Renault drew his sword, the Regal Blade, from its scabbard.

Dundor was unimpressed. "You insult me with your pitiful weapon. I had heard that you too possessed a relic of the eight legends, St. Elimine's book of light Aureloa. Was I misinformed Renault?

"The light of the saint is not to be wasted on the likes of you usurper," said Renault "I've met many men of grand ambition in my life. Hell, I used to be one. All of them can by cut down."

Renault rushed Dundor, intent on ending his life. The Emperor simply batted him aside with Armads, a bored expression on his face. "I had high hopes for you Renault. I was hoping you'd at least be able to offer me a decent challenge, so I could test the might of Durbans against the power of your so-called Saint. But if you refuse to use Aureola, there's no point in even toying around with you." Dundor set his axe aside and conjured up a ball of dark flames. "BE GONE!" Black Death shot forth to extinguish the life of the saint.

Renault hadn't been expecting that. The snuff spell enveloped his body and brought him to ground. He lacked the strength to stand. The darkness was eating his power, draining every ounce of energy from his body.

"Surprised Renault? You shouldn't be my powers come directly from the dark overlords. Lately they seem less than pleased with my performance, but I'm sure this little exchange will put me back in their good graces."

_No..._

Mark materialized on the battlefield, flash-healed Renault, and made quick work of the self-proclaimed God-Emperor with a single blast of Searing Wind. The spell had an effect akin to tossing a dried leaf into the crater of an active volcano. Instant Disintegration

…_It Won't. _

_

* * *

_Card References

CREATURES

-Anaconda

-Crashing Boars

-Crash of Rhinos (A personal favorite, only common in MTG with 8 power)

-Giant Spider

-Gorilla Warrior

-Grizzly Bears

-Rabid Wolverines

-Ridgetop Raptor

-Rogue Elephant (A personal favorite, one mana for a 3/3, first turn beatstick)

-Springing Tiger

-Timber Wolves

ENCHANTMENTS

-Giant Strength

-Lavamancer's Skill

-Lightning Reflexes

-Regeneration

-Stormbind

INSTANTS & SORCERIES

-Explosive Vegetation (A personal favorite for mana acceleration, in R/G beatdown)

-Fog (The original Holy Day, white copied green)

-Landslide (A great closer in red burn, I sacrifice my mountains and you die)

-Lightning Bolt (best red burn spell ever, all who disagree are noobs)

-Overrun (how did you think Mark powered up all those beasties?)

-Searing Wind (A personal favorite because this was my first foil rare)

-Snuff Out


	14. Priority Shift

**Chapter 14: Priority Shift**

Mark sighed irritably. The planeswalker hated downtime. Even back in his mortal days when he had required regular rest to perform his duties the ex-tactician had been a compulsive workaholic. Now that he was no longer bound by the constraints of the human sleep cycle and could focus on his mission 24-7 if he so desired, the concept of downtime seemed even more wasteful and absurd.

Mark needed a new project to feel like he was making good use of his time while Pent and Renault rebuilt Etruria and his ambassadors/soldiers helped them keep the peace. That was why Mark had gone to Lycia. That was why he had taken it upon himself to research the dread plague in painstaking detail. That was why he had gone so far as to violate the sanctity of the grave and turn to the dead for answers. That was how he had come to the conclusion that the plague was undoubtedly Phyrexian in origin and moreover posed a greater threat to the safety of Elibe than any other facing the continent. Mark knew not what weapons the Phyrexians had in waiting, but could not imagine a more destructive force than the one he had witnessed in the slums of Lycia.

The plague killed indiscriminately, striking down helpless infants and seasoned veterans alike with equal proficiency. As far as Mark could tell the plague was incurable, highly contagious, and had a 100 mortality rate. The disease itself was particularly nasty. In most victims the first signs of infection seemed to be nausea and skin rash. As the disease spread the nausea became more severe and the rash erupted into blisters. Additional symptoms usually began to appear at around this time: high fevers, splitting headaches, rasping coughs, and intense muscle pains.

From that point on things really got ugly.

In the final stage of the disease muscle tissue degenerated, leaving the victim crippled and bedridden. Fever spikes would frequently trigger uncontrollable spasms and wild hallucinations. Capillaries would weaken and burst beneath the skin, causing extensive bruising all over the body. Skin would chafe and crack. Hair would fall out. Cartilage would break down. Blood would leak from the eyes, ears, nostrils, and fingernails. The final symptoms were cases of massive internal bleeding and septic shock, which ultimately led to multiple organ failures and death.

This called for immediate action. Mark would also have to seek counsel from his most trusted advisors and tell them what he had learned in Lycia. Renault had helped him once before when he was uncertain how to proceed at the Tactician's Academy. And Pent was no dummy either. If nothing else Mark would need his knowledge of official state business in Lycia. Of course, the one who really could have helped him out at a moment like this would have been Canas. The curious little shaman had the mind of a scientist. Always speculating, always dealing in the obscure and the abstract. If anyone could have unraveled the mystery of the Phyrexian mindset it would have been him. If only Canas were here to help shed some light on the Phyrexians and their mysterious ways…

The absurdity of that last thought suddenly hit Mark. _If only Canas were here! Hah! I'm a friggin planeswalker. I can bring him here from anywhere in the Multiverse!_

Mark pinpointed Canas the shaman with ease and teleported across the world to recruit the seeker of knowledge. He need not be alone in his efforts. Tonight Mark would present his findings to Renault and Pent at their secret base, and he would bring Canas with him. Together they would hammer out some kind of plan.

* * *

Renault and Pent received the Planeswalker's summons and beckoned the call. They had been instructed to approach their secret base at midnight…alone. Mark had made that last detail a condition of their meeting. No one else was allowed to attend. So of course the first thing the sage and the saint noticed was that someone else was in fact attending. He had the look of a dark magic user, but didn't exactly appear threatening with his short purple hair and large monocle. 

"Who are you?" Pent demanded. "What are you doing in our hideout!?"

"Mark invited me. He also filled me in on the details. My name is Canas. I'm a scholar and a student of elder magic. You must be Lord Pent, and I take it your friend is Saint Renault. If so it is an honor to meet the both of you."

_Canas will be assisting us with urgent business. The situation in Lycia is dire, more so than I had previously anticipated. I want the sharpest minds on the continent by my side as I decide how to proceed._

Mark appeared and explained all that he had learned about the nature of the plague, leaving out some of the more gruesome details.

"The symptoms of the disease are not unknown to us, and all along we've been working under the assumption that Phyrexia engineered this plague." said Renault. "You said you had 'disturbing new information concerning the threat level posed by the plague and specific instances of Phyrexian involvement.'"

_I do. First I just have to make sure you're all up to speed on the basics. Now before I go any further I must reiterate. This information is top secret. I trust you at your word gentleman, will you keep all that we are about to discuss in strict confidentiality?_

The gathering of magic users nodded their consent.

_Then prepare yourselves. Tonight you will witness the true power of our enemy._

Mark withdrew a vial of inky black fluid from one of his cloak pockets and began channeling blue mana. He set the vial hovering in midair and cast a blue enchantment on his advisors.

_Let your senses be enhanced so you may know more of the world around you. Gaze into the vial and see what I have seen. Behold the plague spores our foe has created._

With vision magnified a thousand times over, Mark's confidants gazed into the vial and saw that they did indeed contain spores. Millions upon millions of microscopic plague spores; compact killers ready to deal death at any time.

_Look closer. _Mark increased the magnification of his enchantment. _Look at how these spores are constructed: a perfect blend of biology, artifice, and magic on the most basic levels of cellular design._

Their enhanced vision zoomed in on a single spore. It was unlike anything they had ever seen before. Cell walls with metal plating incorporated directly into the cellulose structure, nanomachines that functioned in place of organelles, vacuoles that stored black mana, and an impenetrable dark nucleus at the center of it all. The enchanted casters didn't recognize a single structure. No one on Elibe even knew what a cell was. They lacked the technology to detect such things. That fact made Mark's next words all the more piercing.

_I knew we were dealing with a technologically superior foe, but this? This is beyond anything I ever could have imagined. Even with the intellect of a planeswalker I am at a complete and utter loss to explain how such devices came into existence and couldn't replicate a single spore if I tried. Yet someone on Phyrexia possessed both the genius and the resources to perform the immeasurable calculations, assemble the pieces on a molecular level, and build trillions of perfectly functioning cells from scratch. And who's to say they stopped there? Phyrexia has built greater construct. Who's to say the same nanotechnology wasn't incorporated into their design and built up to a macroscopic level. _

Mark dispelled the enchantment and retrieved his vile.

_Planeswalkers are as far above men as men are above insects. The intellect that designed this plague is as far above planeswalkers as planeswalkers are above unhatched maggot. He goes by many names. He has been called the Father of Machines, the Lord of Wastes, the Hidden One, The Ineffable, the One Mind, and many other things. He is Yawgmoth the Destroyer, Dark God of Phyrexia, and he must not be allowed to enter this world. _

An ominous silence fell over the crowd. Mark sensed the changing mood but nevertheless continued his monologue. The truth was bleak, depressing and painful. But they had to know. If they were not fully aware of the peril they would think him mad when he took draconian measures to halt its advance.

_Yawgmoth can not walk freely from world to world. This is the one power we planeswalkers possess that he does not. Neither Yawgmoth nor the Daemons of his Inner Circle can cross over to Elibe without a portal. I thought that simply by uniting the armies of Elibe under a single banner I could beat back Phyrexian shock troopers before they activated such a portal. I did not anticipate the role the plague would play in the coming war. I overlooked the kill switch._

"Kill switch?" said Pent. "Why do I suddenly have a very bad feeling you saved the worst news for last?"

_Because I did. Here it comes: the Phyrexians added a special feature into the design of their plague spores that allows them to control where the plague spreads. That's the only reason the plague hasn't spread beyond Lycia and Bern. The Phyrexians are containing there own spores for reasons I still can't figure out. We'll get into that later. Here's the worst of it: they also built an override feature into the spore, a kill switch that when activated will disable the containment protocols and allow the plague to spread across the entire continent unchecked. And to the best of my knowledge the kill switch can be activated at any time. _

Mark let that sink in. Renault was the first to understand exactly what he was implying. "You believe if we go on the offensive against Phyrexia, they'll pop the kill switch and infect the entire continent."

_That is my prime concern at the moment. It doesn't matter how powerful the coalition becomes. We can't do anything until the plague spores are neutralized. Which brings us to tonight's all-important question: How do we go about fighting the plague? Truthfully I don't even know where to start this time. I'm…open to suggestions. _

Pent furrowed his brow in frustration. He was milling through the information Mark had just presented and it wasn't adding up.

"That doesn't make any sense," said Pent. "The Phyrexians have a perfect weapon. Why aren't they using it to its full potential? They should be flipping kill switches left and right infecting every corner of the globe regardless of our course of action. They should have done it already."

"Agreed," said Renault. "The whole damn system is completely illogical. What's the point of even having a containment protocol? Why bother wasting resources on a feature that does nothing more than limit the area of effect on your most potent weapon?"

Canas appeared to have a well thought out rebuttal for Pent and Renault. "These Phyrexians do not strike me as the wasteful type," said the shaman. "If they built a containment protocol into their plague and if they are using this feature to keep the plague in Bern and Lycia, then they obviously have a reason for doing so. And I think I know what that reason is.

_Please, do tell_.

Canas adjusted his monocle and took on his most scholarly tone. "It is logic that I myself have fallen back on many a time with my own creations," explained Canas. "I submit to you my theory that the Phyrexians are not yet satisfied with the quality of their plague. They are still experimenting with new strands, trying to achieve some greater affect. To this extent they are using Lycia and Bern for field tests, collecting data by releasing their newest creations on the unsuspecting populace. Until they acquire what they believe is the perfect strand, something so lethal and so grandiose in its effect that it completely satisfies the creator and quells his natural tendency to tinker with his creation, they are hesitant to unleash their plague outside the testing range."

Mark was impressed. He knew he had brought Canas along for a reason…

Lord Pent reevaluated Mark's information. It actually seemed logical now. The shaman's theory might have some merit. Now it was his turn to elaborate. "Mark," Pent began.

"You can see anything on the continent with your scrying, right?"

The planeswalker nodded. _Yeah, as long as I know what I'm looking for. You got something in mind?_

"A Phyrexian laboratory. If Canas's theory is correct and the southern kingdoms have been reduced to testing grounds for the Phyrexians, they should have testing facilities all across the region."

_I'm on it. Hmmm….That's interesting._

"What is it?" asked Pent.

_I'm picking up magical distortions all over the place, cloaking enchantments over areas large enough to house small cities. There's at least one in each territory. Can't tell what it is from this distance, but there's defiantly something in the plague lands Phyrexia doesn't want anyone to see._

"That's as good a lead as any we're going to get," said Renault. "Now the question becomes where do we start? Is there any particular territory that requires immediate attention?

_Nope, they're all pretty much equally screwed at the moment. No one territory is any better off then the others. I'm thinking I should probably start off in Ostia or Pherae given my past relations with the royal families of Lycia._

"Stick with Pherae," Pent recommended. "Elbert is one of the few altruistic lords left in the Lycian nobility. If you eventually wish to have Lycian support for the coalition you would do well to have Marquess Pherae in your pocket, and that's certainly doable. Present yourself to him with a civil tongue and he will take kindly to our cause."

_What about Lord Uther? _

"Dead," Pent said simply. "The plague took his life some time ago. Ostia's been on a downward spiral ever since."

_So who's in charge of Ostia now, Lord Hector?_

"Lord Uther's younger brother was deemed..." Pent paused, searching for a polite term. "…Inadequate to ascend the throne. Ostia is currently under the rule of House Chancellor Oswin."

_Pherae it is then. Dealing with Oswin is like talking to a friggin wall. Hell, in full armor he practically is a wall. Best damn general I've ever seen, but I'd rather…_

Mark's ranting was cut short by a loud buzzing noise and a series of vibrations from one of his summoning stones. It took him a moment to realize the Sacaen chieftains were trying to contact him, but once the message sunk in he was gone in a flash.

"Duty calls?" Renault asked tongue-in-cheek.

_Yeah, I just can't seem to catch a break, can I?_ answered the disembodied voice of the planeswalker. _Stay put this shouldn't take long._

* * *

Mark appeared in Sacae beside Chief Hassar of the Lorca. 

_Why have I been summoned? _

"Invaders," the chieftain responded grimly. "They approach from the south."

_Phyrexians?_

"Not Phyrexians, Lycians. An entire army of them."

_Lycians? Are you sure?_

"Yes, they march under the banner of a well known house. See for yourself."

Mark turned his extrasensory to the southern dust bowl and saw that an army of Lycian knights was indeed marching into the heart of Lorca territory. Upon closer inspection Mark observed that the advancing army flew the banner of…

_House Caelin!? Son of a Bitch! Doesn't anyone stay dead anymore!_

"I beg your pardon?"

_I've fought these bastards before and have neither the time nor the patients to do so again. I refuse to become bogged down in another campaign against that pathetic excuse for a general Lundgren while preparing for a Phyrexian invasion. This ends now. _

Mark took on his most menacing appearance and teleported into the presence of his would-be enemies.

_MEN OF CAELIN! LEAVE THESE LANDS IMMEDIATELY OR FACE MY WRATH! _

The planeswalker cast his edict into the mind of every soldier present, accompanied by mental images of their own gruesome death. Trained soldiers fell to their knees and cringed in terror as the planeswalker polluted their thoughts with images of them being bled, burnt, mutilated, and killed in every other way imaginable.

_SACAE STANDS UNITED WITH THE GROWING ARMIES OF ILIA AND ETRURIA! TO CHALLENGE ONE IS TO CHALLENGE ALL! RETURN TO YOUR MARQUESS AND TELL HIM HIS BLIND AMBITION WILL BE THE DEATH OF HIM!_

The soldiers would have turned tail on the spot and done exactly as Mark had commanded but for the unbreakable will of one man; for there was one among them who refused to be cowered.

Bald, middle aged, and clad in silver armor Sir Wallace stepped forth from the subdued throng to challenge the planeswalker.

"You speak with bold tongue wizard. Who are you to insult Lord Lundgren, and who are we but his sworn knights that we should not cut out that bold tongue of yours for such an affront to our liege?"

Mark chuckled. _It seems you haven't lost that bullish flare of yours Sir Wallace. Still, you surprise me. For you of all people to bow to the whims of a usurper? I expected more from your loyalty to Caelin. Or have you too been deceived?_

"Enough of your lies! Lundgren is no usurper. He is the rightful heir to the throne of Caelin. His brother the marquess died from the plague and he was next in line for the throne. Therefore…"

_Wait a minute, are you telling me that the previous Marquess wasn't poisoned by Lundgren? He died from the plague? _

"Are you daft!?" Wallace bellowed. "It was the talk of all Lycia for months! He died on the same day as Lord Uther. The entire League of Lords was in an uproar!"

…_I see. That changes everything then._

It most certainly did. Having claimed the throne legitimately this time around, Lundgren was no longer viewed as a pariah by his peers in the Lycian league. Mark had no justification to take him down. Or did he? A new plan was taking form in Mark's brilliant young mind. It was risky. It was immoral. Renault and the others would hate him for it. But if he succeeded…oh, the things he could do. The payoff was huge. Sure, the consequences were harsh. But for the most part they were avoidable. The risk was acceptable. Of course he would have to check back in with his advisors before he did anything, which meant he first had to clear away these Lycian buffoons. Mark withdrew from his inner thoughts and spoke one last time to Wallace.

_Sir knight, I take you at your word that Lundgren is no usurper. Still, I can not allow you to enter Lorca territory. I have no desire to fight you, so for the time being…_

With a thought, Mark froze Wallace and his entire platoon in a slow time enchantment. They would remain in stasis until he found a use for them.

…_Be still._

* * *

Mark reappeared at the rebel base. 

_Change of plans_, He announced. _Pherae is off the table. I'm hitting Caelin first, and I might stop by Bern along the way. Pent, what's the status on government affairs in Bern?_

"Very similar to Etruria believe it or not," Pent explained. "Only without all the arbitrary killings. The government holds little if any power and King Desmond is king in name only. Bern's true authority is inherent in the shadow government, a league of assassins that calls itself the Black Fang. They alone execute the will of the people. And occasionally they'll strike down a nobleman who they feel is abusing his power.

_What's their record?_

"Clean as far as I can tell. I can't condone the Black Fang's methods, but for the most part they seem like a decent bunch, better then that lecher Desmond at any rate."

_Excellent. _

There was a deviant undertone in Mark's voice that did not go unnoticed by his advisors. For the first time it occurred to them that the planeswalker could have an agenda of his own, and that researching the plague was not his sole concern in Lycia. The fact that his priorities had shifted so suddenly only heightened their suspicions.

And just like that, the planeswalker disappeared as was his custom.

"We didn't get the full story." said Pent once he was certain Mark was gone "He's scheming behind our back."

"Tell me something I don't know," muttered Renault.

* * *

**Authors Notes**

**In this chapter I made a reference to Daemons, not to be confused with demons. Daemons are mythological demigods. In context, a Phyrexian Daemon would essentially be a lesser aspect of the greater god Yawgmoth bound in the form of one of his high ranking servants. Together, these Daemon servants collectively make up what is known as "Yawgmoth's Inner Circle." Phyrexian demons are something else altogether. Something you do NOT want business with.**


	15. Pulling the Strings

**I don't own MTG or Fire Emblem. If i did I'd be making games instead of writing FanFics. **

**Chapter 15: Pulling the Strings**

Mark learned a great many things from his stealth runs through the Phyrexian shadow labs hidden in the southern kingdoms of Elibe. The invaders kept detailed logs of all their endeavors and the planeswalker had made it his business to snoop through each and every one of them. Their data files told him everything he needed to know about their plans.

The scheduled invasion of Elibe was part of ongoing efforts to rebuild Phyrexia in the aftermath of a devastating war that had ended approximately three hundred years ago in standard planar time. The war had essentially been a failed attempt to reclaim Yawgmoth's home world of Dominaria in the name of Phyrexia and had resulted in almost total annihilation for both worlds. The Dominarians had lost seven planeswalkers, two continents, and billions of lives to their ancient foe. The Phyrexians had faired even worse. The nine spheres of Phyrexia had been completely gutted from surface to sanctum. Yawgmoth himself had suffered a grievous wound in the final battle of Urborg and was still recovering from his injuries (the Dominarians believed the Hidden One was dead, Mark now knew better). Eventually the war had ended in a stalemate with both sides too exhausted and too depleted to continue fighting.

The Phyrexians would not be satisfied with a stalemate. Their terrible god was regaining his former power beneath the swamps of Urborg. Their mechanical world was slowly rebuilding itself in some dark, forsaken corner of the Multiverse. Their engineers were assembling new armaments. Their vat priests were breeding the next generation of Phyrexian shock troopers. All the while the daemons of Yawgmoth's Inner Circle marched from world to world, leading harvesting expeditions and devouring all in their path to fuel the miraculous regeneration of Phyrexia. The Elibe expedition was being led by an ancient and powerful Yawgmoth daemon as old as Phyrexia itself; a sadistic and malicious creature identified in the records of his minions as "Overlord Xod." Mark burned the name into his memory: Overlord Xod, greater daemon of Yawgmoth's Inner Circle and supreme commander of the Elibe Expeditionary Forces. Eventually he would have to fight this monster.

And that was just what Mark had discovered from the Phyrexian's unencrypted channels. Cloaked in magics black and blue, he had also been able to hack into secured mission files and access tactical data regarding invasion plans for Elibe.

Apparently, the invasion was to take place in three phases. Phase one involved the deployment of sleeper agents on Elibe followed by a slow buildup of Phyrexian troops, subversion of local governments, depletion of white mana sites, and the development of a new plague attuned specifically to the natives of Elibe for maximum lethality and "enhanced postmortem capabilities." Presumably, that meant necromancy.

Phase two was to be triggered as soon as the shadow labs produced a necromantic plague strand that met all of Xod's specifications. In this phase Phyrexian plague lords would infect the entire continent with their perfected strand and raise legions of undead warriors to eliminate the last of Elibe's resistance. This would minimize Phyrexian casualties in phase three.

In the third and final phase, the Phyrexians themselves would come to claim Elibe's resources as their own. The vast armies of Overlord Xod would run rampant, stripping the land down to bedrock and slaughtering every living thing in sight. The bounty of the land would be converted to raw materials for the vats and the furnaces. Elibe would be left with nothing; a barren, broken world with no life and no beauty. That was something Mark could not allow.

The tactician turned planeswalker considered the implications of his new information. In theory the solution seemed simple enough: shut down the shadow labs, halt the proliferation of plague spores in the southern kingdom, and force Phyrexia to fight on the coalition's terms. In practice such a thing was easier said than done. The shadow labs were the best guarded Phyrexian facilities on Elibe. It was one thing for Mark to sneak around collecting information. Staging a full scale assault was another matter altogether.

As much as he hated to admit it, Mark had to concede this was not a fight he could win on his own. He would need all the armies currently under his command and then some to capture the shadow labs and take their plague generators offline. It would be the first true test for the coalition forces: a coordinated strike from the Etrurian Mage Corps, the Sacaen Outriders, the Arcadian Dragonkin, the newly recommissioned Knights of Ilia, the wyvern mercenaries and Black Fang assassins of Bern, and the state militias of the Lycian League. Their target would be the one instillation that controlled all the others, Ostia Plague Hub Alpha. The metaphorical eye of the storm…

Now how to go about procuring the allegiance of Lycia and Bern…that was the final bump in the road. As always Mark had a plan, one that he had been developing ever since he had learned Lundgren was still alive and had legitimate rule over Caelin. The scheme in its entirety was nothing short of brilliant, but it lacked the moral high ground of his former tactics. Some provisions were nothing short of despicable.

Morality be damned, the future of Elibe was at stake. Let the saints and the scholars debate the moral ramifications of his plan. Mark would do what was necessary and proper to save the world.

* * *

These days the Black Fang rarely operated beyond the borders of Bern, but this contract was just too tempting to pass up. Black Fang commander Brendan Reed was at least considering it and he had asked his top lieutenants, the Four Fangs, to do the same. 

An unidentified agent operating under the alias "The Puppet Master" wanted the guild of assassins to carry out a hit on the marquess of Caelin, and he was willing to pay a kings ransom in gold and precious gems to get the job done. Already he had forked up half a million in down payments, just to show that he was serious. The shady agent promised ten times that amount upon completion of the mission.

"I for one am completely against this," said Lloyd Reed, eldest son of Brendon and leader of the Four Fangs. "We know nothing about this 'Puppet Master.' His list of grievances against Lord Lundgren is completely unverified. For all we know we could be dealing with a petty political rival looking to ascend the Caelin throne."

"I don't know Lloyd," said Linus Reed, younger son of Brendon and second in command of the Four Fangs. "The listings seem legit: Failure to provide food and medicine for the citizenry of Caelin territory, Failure to allocate state resources for the betterment of the people, Abuse of military power, Domestic oppression, Blatant disregard for the confederation's nonaggression accords, Hostile action against neighboring territories, Incursions into the sovereign territory of Sacae. Looks like our would-be employer has everything in order."

"Idiot!" snapped Lloyd. "What part of 'unverified' can't you get through your thick skull? As of now those are all just empty allegations against a Lycian head-of-state. We have no way of proving or disproving any of them."

"What does it matter!?" shouted Linus. "I got a letter in my hands saying that someone wants to pay us five million gold to axe Marquess Caelin, and you would rather sit here wondering why than go out and get your hands dirty? Grow some balls Lloyd! We serve the people of Bern, think of the public service we could do with all that money."

Lloyd scoffed at his younger, dumber brother. "Reckless and stupid as always Linus. Try looking more than two feet in front of you before you swing that axe of yours and you just may stave off an international incident. All the gold in the world won't help the people of Bern if they have to spend every penny on a war against Lycia."

"What makes you so sure Lycia would come after us?" said Linus. "The confederation hasn't been battle worthy since the first plague wave broke out in Ostia. I'd assume they're as reluctant to fight a war as we are."

"Right, you'd _assume_. And would you really be willing to gamble away the truce between Desmond and the League of Lords on that assumption?

Linus thought about it for a moment. "…For five million gold, yeah."

"…You really are an idiot," Lloyd sighed. "Ah well, I suppose that's why I'm leading the Four Fangs and you're still second lieutenant."

"Bullshit, you're leading the Four Fangs because you were the first born. Otherwise I'd be in charge and you'd be my underling."

"Alright keep telling yourself that Linus. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"….Bastard." muttered Lloyd

"My oh my, I hope I'm not interrupting this tender moment of brotherly love." In a flash of lavender, the third member of the prestigious Four Fangs emerged from the shadows. Most members of the assassin's guild were still unnerved by Legault's disappearing act, but the Reed Brother's had long since grown accustomed to his bag of tricks. He had a few basic routines that could catch almost anyone off guard the first time around, but lost their effectiveness with time and familiarity. Familiarity was rarely the case with Legault anyhow, for few ever grew close enough to the bloodstained Hurricane to learn his ways. As a professional assassin, he made it a point of business to terminate the vast majority of his acquaintances on the first encounter.

"Actually, you're just in time to help me talk some sense into Mad Dog over here," said Lloyd, throwing a quick glance back at his irritated young brother. Lloyd knew he hated that nickname.

Legault just shook his head. "Hate to break your heart Lloyd, but I'm going to have to side with Linus on this one. Uhai's back from the desert and guess what he found: Caelin soldiers. The Puppet Master's story checks out. Lundgren's head is fair game."

"Hah, who's the idiot now Lloyd?" Linus crowed.

Lloyd furrowed his brow in concentration, unsure how to proceed. He still had well founded concerns about this mission. On the other hand, five million gold was a lot of money. It would go a long way towards helping the people of Bern, a task that was now almost entirely up to the Black Fang. King Desmond was despicably negligent in his civic duties, and the wyvern mercenaries were self serving fortune hunters at best and airborne bandits at worst. Who else would look out for the common citizen if not the Black Fang?

"Where does Uhai stand on the matter," asked Lloyd.

"Oh, he's pissed," said Legault. "You know how he is with his Sacaen pride. At this point he's apt to play it solo and start lobbing of heads himself if Brendan doesn't give the kill command soon. "

"And what about you, Legault? The rest of us aside, what would you do?"

"Me? Do you really even have to ask? You're talking to an ex-thief here. I say go for the gold."

"Three to one Lloyd," said Linus. "The Fangs have spoken."

"…Very well. I will relay your decision to the commander." Lloyd turned away from his fellow Fangs.

It was only a short walk to father's command center. Lloyd would have preferred more time to collect his thoughts. He was uneasy. Uhai's corroborating report hadn't put any of his fears to rest. Why was Caelin sending soldiers to Sacae? Was this a mess the Black Fang really wanted to get tangled up in? Lloyd had only the best interest of his charges at heart, and yet all too often he found it impossible to judge what those best interests were. This was one area where not even father could help him, for he too harbored the same doubts sometimes.

"Have the Four Fangs reached a decision?" asked Brendan. Lloyd snapped back from his reverie at the sound of his father and commander's voice.

"Yes. On behalf of the Black Fang, we accept this mission. For crimes against the people of Caelin, Lord Lundgren will die by our hand. We accept the promised sum of five million gold as payment for our services"

"Good, let's just take care of the formalities then and you can be on your way." Brendan unrolled a dark scroll on his desktop and procured an inkwell and quill pen from his drawer. "By my order as commander of the Black Fang, you are hereby authorized to act upon this contract for the assassination of one 'Lord Lundgren' on behalf of the Black Fang in accordance with the following special conditions set forth by your employer…"

Special conditions? Lloyd hadn't heard anything about special conditions. Brendan began reading down the short list.

"One: that no witnesses are left at the scene of the assassination and that the identities of the assassins remain unknown to all but the Black Fang and the employer. All who bare witness to the assassination are to be summarily executed.

Lloyd nodded. He probably would have done that anyway. Better that Lycia never know of their involvement in the upcoming hit.

"Two: That all four members of the Four Fangs attend to this mission personally."

That gave Lloyd cause for hesitation. The Four Fangs NEVER operated together on the same mission. It wasn't necessary, one fang was always enough to get the job done. What manner of foe was this that it should require not one, not two, not three, but all four of the Four Fangs?

"Three: That the corpse of a Phyrexian agent be planted at the scene of the assassination upon completion of the hit."

"…What the hell does that mean?"

Brendan pointed to the vaguely human-shaped…thing… that had come with their down payment. "The metal roach-man" Brendan explained. That was the closest they had come to being able to describe the dead creature. "That's going to be your scapegoat. Haul its ugly ass to Caelin and leave it at the scene of the crime. Then run like hell."

Lloyd stared at the collapsed pile of metal gears, oily excretions, and insectoid anatomy in disgust. "Yeah…I think I'm gonna let Linus carry that."

* * *

Wallace, Kent, and Sain awoke from their stasis dazed and confused. They had no recollection of anything that had befallen them since they left Caelin, for Mark had taken it upon himself to erase their true memories and plant false ones. 

"Uhhh…what happened," moaned Sain.

"I…I don't know," said Kent, searching through his altered memories. "Everything is all hazy. The last thing I remember is Wallace getting us lost in the desert."

"Yeah, I remember that too….I think." Sain's mind was starting to latch on to his false memories, and the green clad knight was slowly coming to his senses. "We got lost in a giant sandstorm. The rest of our unit went missing and we were attacked by…" Sain grappled with his thoughts for a while, searching until he found a word he had never heard before but just seemed right. "…by Phyrexians. We were attacked by Phyrexians."

Kent nodded, growing surer of things. The memories were getting stronger. "Right. We got lost in a sandstorm, attacked by Phyrexians, and then…something else happened. We met that prophet in the desert, the Puppet Master. He told us something important. He told us…" Kent concentrated, trying to remember the prophet's revelation. Everything was coming back in bits and pieces.

The false memory struck the two knights like a thunderbolt. In an instant they both remembered the conversation that had never taken place and the warning that had never been given.

"Lord Lundgren!" Sain exclaimed "The marquess's life is in danger! My boon companion, we must return to Caelin and defend our liege from the assassin's blade!"

"Assassins, where!?" Wallace was conscious now, armor gleaming in the desert sun, lance at the ready at the mention of the word 'assassin.' "Have at thee cowards. Break your blades against the bravest knight in all of Lycia."

"General Wallace, _Phyrexian assassins_ threaten the life of our marquess," Kent reported. "We must return to Caelin immediately."

That was the trigger. At the mention of the phrase _Phyrexian assassins _the memory transfer was complete and the trio of knights new exactly what was expected of them.

"Right then, to Caelin!" commanded Wallace. "We save Lord Lundgren or die trying, and if the assassin's strike us down so be it! To die in the service of king and country is the highest honor a knight can aspire to!" So saying, Wallace began to charge.

"That's great!" shouted Sain tongue-in-cheek. "Except Caelin would be that way!" The green knight pointed in the opposite direction.

"Right, I knew that," said Wallace. "Just had to turn around, that's all."

"Give me that," Kent muttered, ripping a navigation chart from Wallace's grip and flipping it right side up. "If we need to reach Caelin in time to stop an assassination there's no way in hell we're letting you navigate."

* * *

"This better be important," Xod hissed. Honestly, did he have to do everything himself? 

The plague lord that had summoned him to Pherae Plague Hub Theta bowed apologetically and mumbled "Forgiveness, dread one. Our operations have been discovered. We are compromised." One of the Plague Lord's four skeletal arms gestured at the corpse heap outside the instillation: the mangled remains of Wallace's unit. Mark had awakened them from their stasis and teleported them to the base of the Plague Hub, where they had immediately been set upon by a pair of Phyrexian negators. It was over in the blink of an eye. Negators were the deadliest assassin's on Phyrexia, creatures designed for the sole purpose of killing planeswalker. The Caelin soldiers never even stood a chance.

Still, they had delivered their message loud and clear. The cloack of shadows had been breeched. Someone was watching the Plague Hubs.

"How shall we proceed master?"

Xod's mechanical eyes zoomed in on the Caelin battle standard driven through the corpse pile. It was not Phyrexian. It must have belonged to the humans.

"Make an example of these meddlers" Xod instructed. "Find the House that carries their standard and send in the negators. Leave no survivors."

The plague lord bowed again. "Thy will be done. Negators, attend your master!"

Moving faster then the speed of sound and responding to mental commands rather than audible ones, the negators were standing at attention before the plague lord's words could even reach their ears. Standing twelve feet tall at the shoulders with a neck that bent downward from their jet black carapace, the negators towered over their Phyrexian hierarchs. Their spidery limbs were longer than the entire body of an average man, extending from the elevated sockets of their heavily armored shoulders all the way down to their metallic knee caps. Their left arm ended in an enormous five-fingered hand with retractable claws the size of scythe blades. Their right arm ended in a Fel Fire cannon that fed into a series of napalm tanks and black mana batteries stored beneath their exoskeletal armor. Runed metal skin rendered them immune to weapons and magic. Welding mechanisms built into their skin and muscle fibers healed wounds with the type of Phyrexian efficiency that put natural clotting systems to shame, empowering them with self-healing capabilities in the thick of battle on par with those of the master apothecaries who crafted Elibe's finest elixirs. If need be the negators could paralyze foes with disorienting blasts of supersonic sound from their enhanced voice boxes, take direct control of enemies with their mind warping poisons, or channel black mana through their arm cannons to cast devastating dark sorceries. If all else failed they could always fall back on speed and brute force.

_Listen. Obey. Kill._

The pair of negators stood perfectly still, awaiting further instruction.

_Identify the human nation that breeched our defenses and bring the wrath of Phyrexia upon their house. _

The negators went forth to execute the master's will. Blood would be spilled. They would see to it.

* * *

All the pieces were in play. The Four Fangs approached from the East. Wallace, Kent, and Sain approached from the north. A pair of Phyrexian negators approached from the south. In twelve days time the puppets would converge on Caelin and all hell would break lose. Just as the Lycian territory was about to go up in flames, the puppet master would appear and pull all the right strings to take charge of the situation. In the fires of war he would forge an alliance between Lycia and Bern and claim their united armies as his own. Then he would turn them against their common foe. 

Satisfied with his work, Mark turned his back to the southern kingdoms. He had twelve days to make his final preparations. Then it was all out war.

**

* * *

****That concludes Chapter 15 of ****Planar Chaos on Elibe****. As always R&R is appreciated, especially if you've been reading since the beginning and haven't left a review yet for any previous chapters. I like knowing who my readers are and what they're looking for in a story. Believe it or not, feedback is actually helpful.**

**MTG STORY REFERENCES EXPLAINED**

_**"The nine spheres of Phyrexia had been completely gutted from surface to sanctum."**_

**So what are the Nine Spheres of Phyrexia you ask? Basically, Phyrexia is a world within a world within a world nine times over. Think of the way earth is structured with its various layers: the crust, the mantle, and the core. Now imagine that each of those layers is actually a viable biosphere with its own inhabitants, ecosystems, and cities. That's the way Phyrexia is built. The nine spheres of Phyrexia are arranged as follows…**

**The First Sphere: Mechanical Parody of Nature. Houses ecosystems designed to mimic the various lands of the natural world. Phyrexia's first cities were built in this sphere, originally refugee colonies for citizens of the Thran Empire who pledged their loyalty to Yawgmoth. Dragon engines are the dominant species of this sphere. **

**The Second Sphere: Metal Waste and Smoke Stacks. Phyrexia's ammo dump and weapons facilities are housed on this sphere.**

**The Third Sphere: Impenetrable Tangle of Metal Pipes. A magical barrier located in the heart of the tangle prevents planeswalkers from using their powers in the lower spheres. Dreadnaughts are the dominant species of this sphere. **

**The Fourth Sphere: Furnaces and Warrior Training Grounds. The birthing vats for Phyrexian shock troopers are located here. Vat priests are the dominant species of this sphere.**

**The Fifth Sphere: the great ocean of glistening oil. Steam beasts are the dominant species of this sphere. **

**The Sixth Sphere: the private chamber of Yawgmoth's Inner Circle. Only they can survive on this sphere. **

**The Seventh Sphere: Yawgmoth's punishment sphere where those who anger the Dark God of Phyrexia are sentenced to eternal torment. This is hell.**

**The Eighth Sphere: Pure Energy. A cocoon of black mana that encases the Ninth Sphere.**

**The Ninth Sphere: Yawgmoth's Sanctum. Here Yawgmoth slumbers through the ages, drinking in the energies of the eighth sphere and dreaming of his coming vengeance against Dominaria… **


	16. Rampage of the Negators

**I might take a little break from writing after this chapter. I'm going off to college in a month and I've got lots of shit to do. I'll update when I can, but probably not as frequently as I've been updating over the summer. If I can, I'll try to knock off another chapter or two before first semester. **

**I don't own FE. I don't own MTG. I don't own shit.**

**Chapter 16: Rampage of the Negators**

Starless midnight above the Pheraen countryside, the darkest of nights in the darkest of times…

Here on the outskirts of Pherae villages were few and far between, as were the knights assigned to protect them. To his credit, Lord Elbert was the only marquess who even bothered sending his knights to the border towns. His peers in the League of Lords had long since surrendered their citizens to the whims of plague and pestilence and turned a deaf ear to their pleas. Outside the great city-states Lycia was lawless; every man for himself in the hustle and bustle of every day life.

Under the cover of darkness and anarchy a pack of bandits moved unseen. There were thirteen of them, a mixed bunch of brigands and archers. Their leader Groznyi was a large, unkempt fellow with dark green hair and a shaggy beard in desperate need of grooming. A man of Caelin by birth and a career criminal by trade, he made his living wandering from territory to territory attacking villages for money. And tonight he was about to hit the mother load. Groznyi's bandits were going to raid a Pheraen village, kidnap the magistrate's daughter, and hold her ransom for an obscene amount of money.

"We're gonna be rich we are," said a slack-jawed bandit. "It's the talk of the town, how the old coot dotes on his precious little daughter. How much ya reckon we can hold her for boss?"

"I dunno," shrugged Groznyi. "Few thousand at least...figure a small town's gotta have at least that much just lying around."

"What if he don't pay?" said another slack-jaw

"He will," said Groznyi matter-of-factly. "He will if he wants to see his daughter alive."

"What if he doesn't have the money?"

"Then we keep her for ourselves," Groznyi said greedily. "She's supposed to be a real beauty. Cooks and hunts too. Never hurts to have an extra wench hanging around the camp does it?"

"Never does," the slack-jaw agreed "and this one sounds like a real wildflower doesn't she? What's her name?"

"How the hell should I know? What am I, her dad?"

There was nothing left to be said. The bandits rounded the last bend in the road and converged upon their destination. Crimson light broke over the horizon, causing a great deal of confusion and worry among the bandits. Confusion because dawn was still hours away. Worry because they had been depending on midnight's dark embrace to hide their advance, and light at this hour could only mean…

"FIRE!" shouted a burly, foul-smelling brigand. "The entire town is on fire!"

It was fire alright. Fire unlike any they had ever seen—the flames were slightly discolored, and in some places the blaze seemed to congeal like a viscous fluid rather then conflagrate outward—but still unmistakably fire.

"What the hell…did someone get here first? You didn't tell anyone else about your plan, did you boss?"

"O'course not," grumbled Groznyi. He pushed aside a lock of tangled green hair to clear his vision and took in the scene.

From the looks of things, one of the many bandit clans in the region had already looted the village. _Always destroy the scene of the crime, but make sure you loot the place first. Don't burn what you can use. Don't burn what you can sell._ That was the bandit code. Whoever had set the village ablaze had most likely pillaged everything of value beforehand. Still there was a good chance they had missed something. Surely nothing as spectacular as a mountain of gold or a beautiful young girl, but perhaps something at least half decent was left for loot. A barrel of rum. A weapons cache. Anything so that Groznyi and his bandits could at least say they hadn't left Pherae empty handed.

The moment of indecision passed and Groznyi was back in command of his men. "All right rogues, listen up!" he roared over the din of burning buildings and screaming villagers. "We're going in to see what's left for the taking. Grab what you can and get the hell out!"

"Uh…boss? Shouldn't we wait till the fire burns out? Ya know…so we don't die?"

"Idiot! Everything will be gone by the time the fire burns out! Now get moving or I'll have your head!"

"Y-y-yes boss!" The bandit charged into the burning village, fear of the axe overpowering his fear of the flames. Twelve others soon followed suit: brigands in front, archers in back, and Groznyi himself picking up the rear.

Down the winding road they charged until they reached the village gates and could go no further. The barrier that repelled them was not a physical one, for the imposing wrought-iron gates that normally barred the way had been ripped from their hinges and hurled across the town square by an unstoppable force. No, the barrier that kept this band of outlaws from entering the village was one of pure revulsion. The carnage was such that these thirteen hardened criminals could not bring themselves to cross the threshold, so sickening was the scene before them.

The taverns and row houses ringing the town square burned beneath a blanket of congealed flame. The strong scent of burning flesh told them that not everyone had made it out of those buildings alive. Those that had survived the fire met their end in the town square, where the earth itself seemed to have risen up with murderous intent. Spikes of blackened rock rose like tumors through the now pulverized gravel that had once been the cobblestone of the town square. There were dozens of them, each tipped in the gore stain of an impaled villager.

Elderly man, impaled through the foot, thigh, and shoulder. Severely burned…

Little girl, impaled through the head. Severely burned and missing an arm…

Young man impaled through the groin and abdomen. Severely burned. Skull caved in from blunt force trauma to the head…

Middle aged women clutching an infant to her bosom, impaled through the heart with the tip of the spike still imbedded in her baby's skull. Burnt beyond recognition…

Legions of severed limbs grappled their way through the grotesque labyrinth of impaling bolts and burning bodies. Animated by cruel magic they swarmed the town square, some groping blindly in the darkness, others carrying whatever improvised weapons could be found in the burning village. Hatchets. Machetes. Chains. Cleavers. Meat hooks. Butcher knives.

"…B-b-boss, lets get out of here! This place is cursed!"

The severed legions came to a halt at the sound of the panicked voice. With newfound purpose they ceased their aimless wandering and converged on Groznyi's bandits, eager to swell their ranks with the blood of the living.

"RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!" Groznyi yelped.

He didn't have to give the order a second time. Thirteen terrified bandits did an about face and ran like they had never run before...

…Straight into something black and massive. Blending in perfectly with the dark of night the creature had been nearly invisible…until it moved. Only then did they see those terrible glowing eyes. Only then did they see the barrel of a Fel Cannon pointing down at them. Only then did they realize they were dead.

And now the bandits knew a terror beyond mortal comprehension as they stood face to face with the very incarnation of Yawgmoth's will to destroy. A single blast of black mana from the negator's cannon and the deed was done. The ground swirled and darkened as the curse of Rancid Earth took its form. The spike entered at the base of Groznyi's spine and emerged crimson through his mouth before he could even let out a scream. And just like that there were thirteen new additions to the garden of impaled corpses.

* * *

The mood was tense in Castle Pherae. Vehement arguments between the marquess and the chancellor were not at all uncommon these days.

"This has to stop Elbert!" shouted the House Chancellor of Pherae. "We can't just take in every piece of riff-raff who comes to us because their village has been razed. Already you've been far too lenient with your plague refugee policy. At the rate you're going you're going to turn the whole of castle town into a slum of the great unwashed."

"Hold your tongue knave, and remember who it is you are speaking to," the red-haired Lord of Pherae growled irritably. "If you wish to remain in my services I would advise you to never again refer to the citizens of Pherae as 'riff-raff' or 'the great unwashed' in my presence. Do we have an understanding chancellor?"

The House Chancellor seemed to recoil a bit at the marquess's displeasure, but did not back down. "Forgiveness milord, my words lack tact. But surely you can not deny the facts of the matter. Castle Pherae is overburdened. Our streets are overcrowded with the orphans of plague victims, ill equipped to handle the burden of another wave of refugees. Please milord I beg you to reconsider."

"There is nothing to consider. The citizens of Pherae require aid and I will do all in my power to give it to them. You are dismissed Chancellor."

"Milord…"

"I said, you are dismissed Chancellor."

The Chancellor was about to argue his point further, but decided against it. Now was not the time. "…Yes milord. I bid you farewell."

Lord Elbert's veteran guard watched the exchange, his heart swelling with pride.

"That was well done milord," said Marcus. "As always, my liege makes me proud to be a knight of Pherae. If only your peers in the League of Lords shared your desire to help the good people of Lycia…"

"…That's asking for a miracle," Elbert said cynically. "I do what I can for my people and try to teach my son to do the same, but the corruption in the League is beyond my control."

"Lord Eliwood is a fine young man who will do great things for Pherae. You taught him well milord. Although in light of recent events, I do not believe it was wise to permit his monthly bout with Hector. The two of them should not be gallivanting through the countryside unsupervised with these shadow fiends on the loose."

"I would not have let my son travel abroad if I did not believe it was safe to do so. We've been over the attack patterns a million times Marcus." Lord Elbert referred to the map of Lycia hanging on his wall for proof. "The fiends are heading north towards the Santuraz border. Following their current path they'll cross Santuraz, Laus, and eventually arrive on the doorsteps of Castle Caelin. Eliwood will be well out of harms way in Ostia."

Marcus still looked unconvinced. "What if they change course?"

"There's no reason to believe they will do so, and even if they did they could just as well show up here in Castle Pherae. Eliwood is safe with Hector and the knights of Ostia…"

"…and not a single knight of Pherae," Marcus said tersely. "You could have at least permitted a Pheraen escort to accompany him to Ostia. I myself would have gladly signed up for the…"

"I'm touched by your concern for my son Marcus. But the fact of the matter is I can not spare a single knight, as you so delicately put it, 'In light of recent events.'" The marquess paused to collect his nerve.

Marcus steeled himself. He knew what was coming.

"There's been another attack," Lord Elbert said grimly. "Border town, entire village burnt to the ground, no survivors."

"Should we launch pursuit milord?"

"No. By the time you catch up with them they'll already be in Santuraz. Just…just see to it that the dead get a proper burial. And on the off chance that someone's still alive in the rubble…" The Marquess's voice trailed off. He couldn't continue.

He didn't have to. Marcus had understood him well enough. As the formal "Aye milord" left his lips, all Marcus could think was how truly blessed the people of Pherae were to have such a leader.

* * *

"This thing is _disgusting_," Linus complained. "Why do I have to carry it?"

"Because you're the strongest," said Lloyd. "Isn't that what you're always telling us Linus?"

"Strength has nothing to do with it, I'm carrying it on a fucking horse you moron!"

"Then there shouldn't be a problem."

"Damn it Lloyd!" Linus reached into the broken carapace of the dead Phyrexian resting in his saddle, pulled out a handful of black goo, and flung it at his older brother. The oily mess hit Lloyd right between the eyes. "You try riding with some of this shit for the next eight hours."

"What the hell Linus!?" Lloyd wiped away the oily mess from his face. "Are you five years old!?"

Legault was laughing hysterically. Uhai as always was silent and stoic, conducting himself with the strict composure expected from a man of Sacae.

"There's a small village around this next bend," said Uhai. "We can rest there for a bit and if you wish Linus, I can carry the agent for a bit after we depart."

"Nah, that's okay," said Linus. "I'll carry it until we reach Caelin. I just wanted my douche-bag brother over here to get a good whiff of this." Linus scooped up another handful of goo and flung it at Lloyd."

"LINUS!"

"Glad I'm an only child," muttered Legault.

Lloyd threw the lavender haired assassin a withering glare.

"Just saying Lloyd, wouldn't want all the sibling rivalry." Legault quipped. "Of course you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You and Linus just get along so well."

"Can it Hurricane."

The Four Fangs rounded a bend in the road and came upon there would-be rest stop. What they saw stopped them dead in there tracks. They had stumbled upon the burnt out, bloodstained remains of the village that only three nights ago had been assaulted by Phyrexian negators. The scene was just as it had been when Groznyi and his men discovered it, plus or minus thirteen death spikes at the gate. The severed legions clawed pitifully at the broken cobblestones, feeble and lethargic in the light of day. Only at the hour of twilight would they stir.

Slowly, cautiously the Fangs crossed the threshold.

"Lloyd…" Uhai muttered nervously, his dark eyes darting back and forth from impaled villagers to undead minions.

"…I know Uhai, we won't stay long. Just a quick check for survivors, then we'll be on our way."

"…Forget it Lloyd, they're dead." Linus whispered, repressing a sob. His gaze had wandered onto the spike with the mother clutching her child. His own voice sounded distant to him. "They're all dead…"

Legault took in the carnage with the mind of an assassin, trying to reconstruct the massacre in his mind's eye and imagine what exactly had happened to these poor people. His mind drew a blank. He knew of no foe human or otherwise that killed in this manner.

"What do you suppose happened to them?" he asked. "You don't suppose…"

"HALT!"

Startled, the Four Fangs drew there weapons and did a 180 to bring themselves face to face with the source of that booming command. It was a Lycian knight, a paladin of Pherae by the look of it. He held a silver lance in one hand and a kite shield emblazoned with his house crest in the other. A well crafted suit of armor decorated with orange cloth protected all but the knight's head, which remained exposed to reveal his stern middle-aged face, graying hair, a pair of sideburns and a short goatee. He was flanked by a beautiful long-haired woman, dressed in white with a silver sword and a handsome blonde swordsman, dressed in studded green armor with a tower shield and a steel blade.

"What business do you have here!?" Marcus, the lead knight, bellowed.

Linus leveled his tomahawk as though he were about to send it flying at Marcus's head. Lloyd shot him a look that the younger brother understood to mean _Do it and I'll fucking cut you._ The Mad Dog of the Four Fang's caught his brother's rueful gaze and stayed his hand. Still, he did not lower his weapon.

"We're just a band of mercenaries passing through the area," Lloyd lied trying to diffuse the situation. He didn't want to fight these knights. They were innocent bystanders. There was no reason for them to die.

"Mercenaries, right." Marcus scowled skeptically.

"Do you doubt us?"

"Yes, I do." Marcus's scowl darkened. His eyes caught sight of the Phyrexian corpse mounted on Linus's horse. "Why are you traveling with the fiends that attack our villages?"

"There must be some kind of misunderstanding sir knight."

"You think me a fool boy. I see with my own eyes what company you keep. Harken! Isadora!"

All three knights were in combat positions now. Lloyd swore under his breath. He didn't want to hurt these people, but it looked like he was going to have to fight. If only he had some kind of distraction.

"Sir Marcus! Sir Marcus!" The scrawny voice of a squire looking for his knight commander called out from somewhere in the ruins. "Sir Marcus, I found something!"

_That will do_, Lloyd thought

"Aim low and fall back!" Lloyd shouted. "Four Fangs, move out!"

Several things happened in rapid succession. Linus hurled his tomahawk at Marcus's kneecap. Legault threw a flurry of small knives at Isadora, all of them hitting her below the waist. Uhai shot several arrows at Harken's shins and ankles, intent on landing at least one in his Achilles tendon. The Four Fangs took off at full sprint, mounted up, and fled the scene of the confrontation leaving three knights of Pherae behind in no condition to give chase.

"Sir Marcus!" Lowen called out again "Sir Marcus!"

"Over here you dumb pup, and for God's sake keep your voice down!"

Lowen followed the sound of his commander's voice until he came to the spot where his senior knights lay crippled and bleeding, at which point Marcus began mercilessly beating his squire with the butt of his lance.

"How many times must I tell you boy, do not let your inexperience be the downfall of an army! Honest to God Lowen, who screams like that in the middle of a battle?"

"I-I-I'm sorry sir! I didn't even know we were in battle."

"Idiot! Always assume we're in battle!"

"Leave the kid alone Marcus, he didn't know." Harken groaned "Lowen go get my saddlebag and dig around in the left pocket, I think I have an extra vulnerary laying around in there."

Lowen did as he was told and returned with a brown vile of medicinal potion, which he promptly separated into three doses and distributed among Marcus, Harken, and Isadora.

"Now boy," Marcus said tersely. "What was so important that you had to come running out screaming."

"I found a girl on one of the spikes. She's still alive."

"WHAT!? Lowen, where did you see this?"

"A few roads down, in front of the old magistrate's building. Better bring the elixir sir, she's in pretty bad shape."

Lowen led the knights of Pherae to the spike where he had found the living girl.

"Lowen…" Isadora said gently. "Are…are you sure she's not dead."

The green-haired, pigtailed girl impaled in front of the magistrates building wasn't moving at all. She was badly burned and judging from the dried brown stains all around her, she had lost a lot of blood. Too much blood...

"She's alive," Lowen repeated. "She had a pulse, and when I put my head against her chest she was still breathing. Looks like her leg's busted though."

"Dislocated from the impact," Marcus clarified. "That's probably what saved her life. Look at how the spike goes in though the calf and comes out through the inner thigh. Her leg sticks out at a 90 degree angle, so the spike doesn't hit anything vital when it jabs upward. If her leg had been in its socket when the spike broke through, the tip would be in her stomach right now."

"…We have to get her off that spike before she loses any more blood," said Isadora. If we can just get some medicine into the wound she should be fine. Harken, give me a hand here."

"I'm on it Issa."

* * *

Through the magical vapors of their scrying pool, Pent and Renault watched in grim silence as Harken and Isadora pried Rebecca from her death spike and forced healing elixirs into her body. This was not something they were supposed to see. Mark had only begrudgingly taught Pent the basic secrets of mana, predicting that the Etrurian sage would spend at least a month tinkering with the arcane energies before he even figured out how to summon fire without his precious tomes. The planeswalker had greatly underestimated Lord Pent's ability to master new forms of magic.

Pent was outraged. "This is unacceptable Renault!" the sage shouted. "What does that bastard think he's playing at!"

"Mark believes that Lycia is too far gone to be recruited by conventional means; that they must see the strength and ferocity of the enemy first hand or they will never stand and fight. He is not entirely mistaken."

Shock registered on Pent's face as he realized the full implications of Renault's casual response to the Pheraen massacre.

"You…you knew about this…And you condoned it?"

"I had a vague idea what he was going to attempt. I didn't know it was going to turn into this…"

"So these are his true colors," said Pent. "This is how he schemes when he thinks no one else is watching. This is how he values life..."

"Do not judge him too harshly," cautioned Renault. "Mark carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and—whether he wants to admit it or not—his heart remains human while the rest of his being ascends. Not all his decisions are going to be perfect."

"Perfect? PERFECT!? Look at what he's doing to these people Renault. " Pent cast his pointer accusingly at the scrying pool, where the Phyrexian negators could now be seen rampaging through Santuraz territory, setting forests ablaze with napalm explosions and casting black sorceries at anyone in their path.

"This is a Phyrexian attack. Mark is not the one who causes such wonton destruction."

"He allows it to continue!"

"Only because he must."

"He's allowing hundreds of innocent civilians to die."

"Only so that millions more may live."

"And who is he to decide who will live and who will die? Who died and made Mark God of Elibe?"

"Pent, listen to me…"

"No more!" shouted Pent. "I've said my peace. When the time comes I'll do my part to support the coalition. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let Mark use the citizens of Etruria as pawns for his warmongering! My people are not puppets!"

Renault said nothing.

**

* * *

****Next chapter (whenever that is): Eliwood and Hector are back in the spotlight. Hope to see some more R&R before then. **

**Hellfire Supremacy, signing out.**


	17. Enemies from Within

**Remember that teaser I snuck in at the end of Chapter 16, the one about Eliwood and Hector being in this chapter? Disregard that. I've been AFK for 5 months and now that I'm finally back I find myself wanting to take the story in a different direction…for the time being. Deal with it. I still don't own Fire Emblem. **

**Chapter 17: Enemies from Within**

By the thousands they flew, battle maidens on winged steeds as far as the eye could see. From horizon to horizon they owned the skies. This was their redemption after generations of humiliation in the alleys of Ilia. This was their long-lost birthright.

Not even a full month had passed since the casting of Mark's summoning spell and already the knights of Ilia were stronger than they had ever been in the days of old. Before the Phyrexian purging Ilians had been content to live as mercenaries with allegiances only to their guilds and to their employers. No more, now all of Ilia stood united by virtue of the debt they owed their savior and the reckoning they owed their enemy. For all knew that the planeswalker Mark had returned the pegasus to Ilia, and by his teachings all knew of the merciless enemy that had murdered the noble beasts some three hundred years ago. The very enemy they were now being called upon to fight. The Knights of Ilia would heed the call. There was bloodlust in their thoughts and vengeance in their hearts as they soared and sparred and steeled themselves for the coming world war. For crimes against the Pegasus, against Ilia, and against the world the metal invaders would die. Ilia would not rest until every last Phyrexian on Elibe was dead.

The changes in Ilia had been so rapid and so widespread that at first even Mark had been surprised. In time the planeswalker would come to understand exactly what was happening; how brothels seemed to transform into barracks overnight, how street thugs suddenly became disciplined soldiers, how every woman in Ilia seemed to instinctively know how to ride the winds and swing a sword and throw a javelin. The changes appeared instantaneous because they were not truly changes at all. They were returns to normality; an altered state of existence that never should have been reverting to its natural state. For three hundred years Elibe had been trying to naturally repair the damage done by Teferi's time anomaly, awaiting a catalyst of sufficient power and opportunity to set the repairs in motion. Mark's summoning spell had provided a localized catalyst and unleashed three hundred years worth of suspended development on Ilia in the course of one month.

The unintended consequences of Mark's summonings, once fully understood and properly utilized, would become a vital component of the planeswalker-tactician's battlefield strategy. But at this moment full understanding was still a ways off, both for the planeswalker overseeing Ilian reconstruction and the suspicious Etrurian sage who had taken it upon himself to monitor said planeswalker's every move…

* * *

St. Elimine's Grand Cathedral couldn't have been more than a leagues distance from the Reglay Estate. At full gallop it would have taken five minutes to make the trip on horseback. With a warp staff it would have taken five seconds.

For all the grandeur in his newfound position as High Father of Elimine's flock, Renault had neither luxury at the moment. Circumstances demanded that he cover the distance on foot; preferably at a full sprint. No easy task at his age, but Renault would have to go the distance on adrenaline and force of will. Pent needed him. Without Renault's intervention the noble sage would be dead by nights end.

It had come to this. The breech of trust between Mark and Lord Pent had grown into a rift that now threatened to unmake the entire coalition. Pent had never fully trusted the planeswalker. To the sage Mark came across as scheming, manipulative, secretive, and overbearing. Sensing his discontent, Mark had taught Pent to tap red mana in small quantities for the limited purpose of casting flame and thunder without tomes. The planeswalker's intention had been to provide Pent with a productive distraction, learning to use a new form of magic, so as to divert attention from his controversial plottings in Lycia. The distraction backfired spectacularly when Lord Pent, with his remarkable affinity for magic, went beyond the planeswalker's teachings and began experimenting with mana across the spectrum. Through green mana Pent acquired the ability to accelerate his own magic production and cast stronger spells. Through white mana Pent acquired the power to dispel enchantments, such as the stealth wards protecting Mark's pet projects from Phyrexian spies. Through blue mana Pent acquired the power to scry. And through black mana he acquired the ability to avoid detection.

Then Pent did something Mark never expected and had never prepared for. He used his magic against his planeswalker mentor. He disenchanted Mark's stealth wards and went scrying through all of his movements in Lycia. The atrocities Pent witnessed in his visions destroyed what little faith he once had in the planeswalker. Now he habitually spied on everything the planeswalker did and made a grand show of second guessing all Mark's commands. And that wasn't even the worst of it. Mark knew someone was spying on him, but he didn't know who. It never occurred to him that one of his own lieutenants would betray his confidence. So when his wards started failing he could think of only one possible explanation: Phyrexian sabotage. With that thought the planeswalker had gone damn near ballistic and put every conceivable site of strategic importance on heightened security. That meant city wide lockdowns, midnight curfews, and a whole menagerie of bizarre summonings joining forces with the local watch for guard duty.

Even now, sprinting towards Castle Reglay in the wee hours of the morning with only the moonlight to guide his steps, Renault was aware that beings of sentient lightning were eyeing him from the shadows. The saint knew them to be spark elementals, a favored pet of the planeswalker Mark. Renault barely caught their crackling silhouette out of the corner of his eye, but the strong electric tingling on his skin told him all he needed to know.

Mark had deployed an army of elementals around the Reglay estate. That could mean one of two things. Mark had either acknowledged Pent as a linchpin in the leadership of the coalition and sent an army to protect him or singled him out as a threat to the secrecy of his war plans. In which case the spark elementals weren't here to protect Pent; they ware here to kill him. The latter scenario was far more likely at the moment. Renault knew this from his last meeting with the planeswalker Mark…

…the meeting that had taken place less then 10 minutes earlier at St. Elimine's Grand Cathedral.

…the meeting in which Renault had learned Mark was now planning on using lethal force against his unknown "saboteur," that he had rigged his latest stealth wards with enough kill-spells to neutralize six Phyrexian negators.

…the meeting that had sent Renault sprinting down Capital Row at this ungodly hour to save the life of a dear friend; a friend who by his own ill-luck now found himself dead in the cross-hairs of a planeswalker's fury.

Panting, out of breath, Renault redoubled his efforts on the road to House Reglay. Every muscle in his body ached. He had reached the limits of his stamina and was physically exhausted. Only his discipline and his spirit were keeping him on his feet.

That would have to be enough. Renault would not have the blood of another dead friend on his hands. For in his minds-eye it was not Pent he rushed to save, but another friend and comrade slain in centuries past by his own callous hand. It was too late to save him now, too late to save Kishuna. But it wasn't too late for Pent.

The path was clear. Renault would save Lord Pent and in doing so he would save himself. Ignoring the stabbing pain that now accompanied each rasping breath, the Saint quickened his pace.

* * *

"Pent, this is ridiculous. It's 3:00 in the morning. You've been staring at that stupid bowl for hours. Nothing's happening."

At this point, Louise wasn't even sure if her husband could hear her. Though they stood only feet away in the library ward of House Reglay, Pent was oblivious to everything outside his scrying pool. Pent needed absolute concentration for these new rituals. He was not a planeswalker and did not possess the raw power necessary to scry as Mark did; casually casting the necessary spells in one corner of his mind while tending to a thousand little mundane tasks in the others. For the mortal sage scrying was an all-consuming endeavor.

"Please Pent, come to bed." Louise yawned "You can finish whatever your doing in the morning."

Another plea and still no response. Now Louise was growing irritated. Either Pent was purposely choosing to ignore her, or he was so far gone in his own little world of magic and mystery that she might as well not even exist. This was the kind of obsessive, introverted behavior she had come to expect from young Erk, but not from Lord Pent. Never before had the sage put his studies before his marriage.

"Okay, seriously Pent, this has to stop." Louise raised her voice and took on a decidedly sharper tone for this latest attempt to break through her husband's sorcery-induced trance. "All week you've been holed up in this library playing with a god damn dish pan. You don't eat. You don't sleep. You're short tempered with Erk and you can't even be bothered to talk with me."

No Response.

Louise breathed an exasperated sigh and inched closer to her husband. Gently, she placed a soft hand sensually on his shoulder. "Still nothing, huh?" On par with expectations, the sage gave no indication that he was aware of his wife's presence. No kind words, no reciprocating gesture. Not even a glance in her direction. Pent remained as expressionless as stone, his gaze ever fixed on the swirling mist in his scrying pool. "Alright then. We'll do this your way."

Still holding on to her husband's motionless shoulder, Louise reached out with her one free hand to strike the scrying dish from its pedestal. Upon hitting ground, the dish shattered to pieces and its mystic contents dissipated. His connection broken, Pent returned to his senses as was once again aware of his surroundings. First and foremost he was aware that his scrying pool had been broken—violently—and an unknown contact was holding on to his shoulders from behind. Considering the possibility that he had been ambushed, the sage began channeling red mana to his palms in case he had to fight his way out of his own library.

"Put those fireballs out. Now," Louise said sternly. At the sound of his wife's voice, Pent did a 360 and immediately cut of the mana supply to his flame burst spell.

"Louise! What are you doing here!?" yelped a startled Pent.

"I live here." The countess responded dryly.

"I know that," snapped Pent. "I mean what are you doing here, in my library, at this hour? I told you not o disturb me while I'm working."

"You also told me you care more for your family then your power and that if you ever reached a point in your studies where the pursuit of magic threatened to consume you, you would turn back. Which Pent should I heed, my husband or my Mage-General."

"This isn't about my power or our family. This is bigger then us." As he spoke, Pent worked through the hand gestures and mental incantations required to summon a new scrying pool. "A madman drives Etruria to war against an inhuman foe. Renault has us side with one villain to fight another, and it seems I alone have the wherewithal to recognize his error. To fight Phyrexia Renault made a deal with the devil. And the devil always gets his dues."

"Pent, that's ridiculous. Mark brings nothing but good things to Etruria. Have you forgotten already; it was Mark who killed Dundor and ended our civil war. Not you. Not Renault. Mark. So far he's proven himself to be a competent leader, a powerful ally, and a brilliant strategist. Why do you suddenly doubt him so?"

"You didn't see it Louise." Pent's face curled back in disgust. "You didn't see what that monster did to those poor innocents in Lycia. Villages across Pherae, Santuraz, Laus, and now Caelin all in flames. Women and children with spikes driven through their hearts." Pent had to pause to choke back tears of rage. "We were wrong to trust him Louise," the sage seethed. "I can see it even if Renault can't. Mark's gone mad with power. He seeks retribution for the destruction of the Tactician's Academy and so he takes the entire world to war not for the defense of Elibe, but for his own vendetta. He's going to draw Overlord Xod into an open fight if it's the last thing he does and he's going to get every last one of us killed in the process. EVERY LAST ONE OF US, KILLED!"

The last sentence wasn't so much spoken as maniacally spouted. Louise was almost too stunned to respond. Fortunately, she didn't have to.

"Terribly…(huff)…misjudged…(huff)…Pent….(cough-cough). Terribly misjudged."

It was a voice both Louise and Pent recognized well. Though raspy and labored following a 15 minute sprint from church to estate, that voice still commanded total attention whenever it spoke.

"Father Renault!" Louise did an instant about-face, turning away from her husband and bringing herself to a full bow before the newly anointed Head of Church. "You heard? You heard everything didn't you? Please excuse my husband's mistrust holy one. He has only recently emerged from magic's thrall and is not yet in a sound state of mind."

"Lies," Pent hissed in a voice not entirely his own, a detail that did not escape Renault's notice. "Lies, lies all of it! I know who I am and what I say Renault. I tell you Mark is a false savior. His path leads to death. We must find another."

"Would…that your lack of faith…in our leader…were our greatest concern…at the moment. Unfortunately…we have a bigger problem."

Renault paused to take a series of deep meditative breaths and stabilize his breathing. How the hell was he supposed to explain this one?

"I can't tell you everything right now, but basically, Pent set off a high-level security ward while scrying over a secured area in Ilia and now he's marked for death by an army of elemental destroyers. The point is we need to move. Now. Or we're all going to die. "

The night sky clouded over and crackled with crimson lightning. The temperature dropped, the earth shook, and the winds whipped up to a gale force. Something terrible was stirring in the darkness outside Castle Reglay.

"Louise, you need to wake Erk and get him down to the escape tunnels." Renault instructed. "As soon as you hit the underground start putting distance between yourself and the castle. The elementals won't follow you, it's Pent they want. He'll have to stay here."

"No! I'm not leaving Pent to die!"

"Have faith noble lady." Renault smiled. "Pent will remain at Castle Reglay for the purposes of damage control, no other reason. So long as he remains rooted in one spot the damage from the elementals will remain localized. As for your husband's safety, I assure you he will be well protected from all harm. I have no intention of sacrificing any lives tonight."

"Unlike other coalition leaders who come to mind," Pent muttered.

"Enough," said Renault. "Focus on one thing at a time Pent. There will be time enough for you to settle your dispute with Mark if you survive this siege. That should be everybody's main concern at the moment. Louise, get Erk to the tunnels. Pent, mount up at the stables and meet me at the hillside safe-house ASAP. Don't bother stopping by the armory, we're low on time and the safe-house is already stocked with everything we'll need to weather the coming attack. Now get moving, that storm's getting closer and it doesn't look friendly."

An understatement if there ever was one; the ground tremors were intensifying and the sky looked as though it was about to burst into flames. The air swelled with a palpable aura of belligerence and tingled with electrostatic bolts.

Renault bolted out of the room at a speed that amazed his younger companion. Pent had to hand it to the elder saint, if nothing else he had kept himself physically fit in his old age. He must have been quite a terror back in his prime, when by all accounts he had been a merciless swordsman.

Before taking off after Renault, Pent turned back to his wife one last time. "Do you see Louise. Surely you must believe me now?" Again he spoke with the voice that was not his. This time Louise noticed it too, and now she knew for sure that something was wrong with her husband; something beyond the usual magic overdose that happened from time to time. This was something she had never seen in him before, something new and frightening.

"I told you he was mad with power" the voice that was not Pent's whispered with a conspiratorial undertone. "See now how he summons elemental assassins to punish me, his only dissenter, to set an example for the others. He seeks to silence me. Do you see?"

"Idiot, Mark couldn't care less about your dissent. You were snooping around somewhere you shouldn't have been with that damn bowl of yours and you got caught. That's all there is to it. The Elemental's probably think you're a Phyrexian spy."

"Indeed. Then the false savior has you believing his lies as well." Pent regarded his wife with a cold stare. "So be it."

Without further ado, Pent turned away to perform his task and Louise turned away to perform hers. There was not so much as a parting embrace between the two.

* * *

Renault had a good head start over Pent, and he knew for a fact that the Mage-General was a much slower runner. If nothing else the Saint had beaten the sage to the stables and been the first to acquire a mount. Of this he could be certain; the stables had been locked up for the night when Renault arrived. It had taken several aura blasts to the sidewall and a subsequent blow from his Regal Blade to make a man-sized entrance. Getting out proved much easier then getting in thankfully. All he had to do was unlock the front gate and from there it was easy riding of to the safe-house.

Renault galloped off into the hills. The ride was uneventful, a welcome change of pace from the usual turmoil that seemed to surround everything he did as of late.

The calm before the storm…

The peace was short lived. As soon as the safe-house came into view Renault knew something was wrong. The lights were on and a shady figure moved inside. The hideout was occupied, an unforeseen turn of events. Perhaps some brigands had stmbled upon its whereabouts and presumed to set up shop in Lord Pent's backyard. Or perhaps a crafty thief had hoped to make his fortune pilfering the hideout's stockpiled supplies. Either way the situation demanded action. Renault unsheathed his blade in one hand and began channeling light magic from his holy book in the other. Church vows aside, he was prepared to fight if need be. The safe-house had to be secured.

Menacingly, Renault kicked open the front door and crossed the threshold in a state of full preparedness, ready to confront whatever intruder stood before him.

"What the hell?" Renault caught sight of the figure that stood before him and did a double take. "Pent, how did you get here first?"

"Teleported," the sage responded blandly. There was an aloof, almost bored undertone in his voice. He seemed strangely detached from the situation, not at all like a man who was about to lose his entire estate to an elemental storm. "I would have taken you with me if you hadn't bolted off. It's much quicker then running."

"So it is," the saint responded cautiously.

He did not lower his weapon or release his spell, wary as he was of this new Pent. These days the sage was not his old self. Looking back on the past few weeks, Pent had not truly been himself ever since he started using Mark's magic. The old Pent was a leader among men: a noble lord, a wise mentor, a selfless humanitarian, an altruist in every sense of the word. The new Pent was paranoid, manic, aggressive and at times prone to random acts of violence.

"So," Pent locked eyes with the holy man. His features were cold, devoid of all good-will for his companion. His tone drifted between disinterest and accusation. "Now that you've dragged us out here I assume you're going to tell me the rest of your plan. Surely you don't intend to sit around and hide in the hills while my holdings are reduced to ash."

"I intend to keep you safe until we can get this whole mess straightened out with Mark. I left him a message through the summoning stones. As soon as he gets it he'll call of the attack and come here in person to hear your grievances. Until then we're going to stay here and try not to get ourselves killed. That means we're going to need these." Renault ripped the lid off a crate of light runes and tossed one over to Pent, who had spoken not a word and just continued to stare daggers at Renault. "We've got enough runes to build a full perimeter fence. That should keep the hideout safe, assuming we can get it up and running before the elementals touch down. Come on, we'll have to work fast."

Renault began grabbing handfuls of lightrunes and pocketing them in the folds of his robe. Pent didn't move.

"Pent?"

"We disapprove," Pent spoke conclusively.

"What was that?" Renault's hand moved back to his scabbard, his suspicion rekindled. Had he heard right? Did Pent just refer to himself as "we?" And why did he keep using that damned voice. It was the voice of a madman, a voice not unlike that of the Dark Druid Nergal. Why did it now resound from the noble Lord Pent?

"We will not cower in the shadows while agents of the enemy besiege our castle, nor will we hold out for a redress of grievances with the hated enemy Mark."

Pent took a step forward and Renault reflexively took a step back. In one fluid motion Renault unsheathed his Regal Blade, extended his sword arm, and pressed the tip of his weapon against Pent's neck taking no chances he held the mad sage at sword length.

"Who are you," Renault hissed "What have you done with Pent!"

"Don't be foolish," the mad voice chuckled. "I am Pent. Who else would I be old friend?"

"An imposter," Renault growled. Forcfully now he pressed his sword's bladed edge against the cursed thing, hard enough to draw blood "A Phyrexian sleeper who wear's Pent's face as a masquerade."

"Are you certain Renault." The false Pent seemed amused. Dare it mock the saint whilst at the tip of his blade? "Are you certain this is but a feign of flesh, that Pent no longer resides in this mortal frame. Because if you're not, if there is but a shadow of a doubt in your tortured little mind Renault, then I think we both know. We know you can't bring yourself to kill me."

Renault trembled, but did not relent. Firmly he kept his sword pressed against the creature's neck. Was it a magic-crazed Pent? Was it a construct? Dare he gamble away the life of another companion on nigh but a sneaking suspicion?"

"You hesitate old man. It seems you have not yet forgotten your last folly. Tell me…" the voice turned malicious. "…This sword with which you threaten to take my life, Pent's life…is this not the very blade that struck down Kishuna."

The Saint's sword hand was shaking visibly now. Cold beads of sweat collected on his forehead.

"You fool no one Renault, if you were going to kill me you would have done it by now." Blue fire materialized in Pent's hands and erupted in a torrent of mana. "Your folly," the voice cackled.

Renault cut deep with his Regal Blade to strike a blow against the abomination, but caught only air. Pent teleported out of harms way and reappeared directly behind Renault with an outstretched hand over the back of the saint's head. Renault dropped his sword and fell to his knees as blue control magic leapt to his skull from Pent's fingertips, willing the saint into a state of paralysis. Renault tried to resist the sorcery, but to no avail. Pent's magic was far too powerful.

"Why are you doing this?" Renault grunted. He was completely immobilized. He couldn't even lift his head, couldn't even look the sage in the eye as he pleaded for his life. "What happened to you Pent? How did they get to you?"

"He called to me the night I witnessed the Pherae Massacre. He sympathized with he victims. He shared my discontent." Two voices spoke from Pent's one mouth now. One was a normal human voice, the other an otherworldly echo. They spoke as though in a trance. "He called and I answered. Now I am body to his spirit, conduit to his power, means to his end. Together we are one. Together we are complete. Together we will have our vengeance against the bastard Mark, the hated enemy who was damned us to this fate. One by one his follower will die, starting with you High Father." Pent raised his arm as though he were about to slap Renault and willed his hand to burst into flames. "Send my regards to Elimine you son of a bitch."

"Wait!" Renault shouted. "Kill me and you'll never know the truth about Mark's operations in Ilia! All you saw were his troop movements, and fortress layouts, don't you want to know what he's really planning?"

Of course Renault had no intention of giving away military secrets to a possessed man and an insane ghost, but he had to do whatever he could to stall for time. Finally he had gotten to the bottom of Pent's manic paranoia with all things regarding Mark. It wasn't, as Renault had earlier feared, a sign that Pent had been murdered and replaced by a Phyrexian sleeper agent. It was just a severe case of paranormal possession; something Renault knew how to deal with well enough from his latter days as a bishop. He could pretty much perform an entire exorcism by himself and more importantly at the moment, he knew how to connect with disembodied spirits. He had done it once before at the ruins of the Tactician's Academy when even Mark had been overwhelmed. He could do it again. All he had to do was stall for time until the planeswalker responded to his summons.

"What say you spirit, do you wish to know how your hated enemy will fight his battles? Surely such knowledge will aid you in your quest for vengeance."

"And you would have us believe you divulge such information freely?" possessed Pent spoke in what Renault now understood to be the mad voice of whatever foul, Mark-hating wraith had taken up residence in the sage's corporal form. "Why should we believe a word you say?"

"Because your only other choice is to accept that you'll never know how Mark rebuilt an entire country in a month. You'll never know why Mark reassigned half of Etruria's standing army to Ilia's Fort Burgundy with not so much as a word to the Magic General. That one's just been killing you, hasn't it? And you'll definitely never know what his excavation teams are looking for at the Mountain of the Ice Dragon.

Pent lowered his still burning hand and appraised Renault with a chilling stare. "You have our attention," spoke the voice of his possessor. "Keep talking. Start with this Burgundy affair, why are our mages stationed in Ilia."

"Well now, that goes back to the matter of rebuilding doesn't it? You see when Mark cast the summoning spell that brought pegasi back to Ilia…"

"Irrelevant to the matter at hand. INFLAME!"

Pen't hand discharged a bolt of red mana into Renault's chest. Searing agony exploded all over the Saint's body. His breathing spasmed, a burning sensation overcame his skin, and his eyes swelled shut in pain.

"We will have none of your misdirection Renault. Say something useful or say nothing it all. I'll ask you again…" Pent released his spell and Renault gasped for air, drawing deep breaths in between screams. "Why are our mages stationed in Ilia?"

"Because…because of the side-effect." Renault panted. "The summoning spell that brought back the pegasi did something it was never supposed to do. It altered the flow of time in Ilia. Fort Burgundy and everything in the surrounding area— the Snow Plains, the pinelands, the Sea of Ghosts—they were all in the right place at the wrong time. They took the brunt of the alteration. Mark sent your army north…sent all the armies north…sent them to the fast zone to train."

"…the fast zone?"

"A region of highly accelerated time flow around the casting site on the Snow Plains," Renault explained. "It extends 25 leagues in every direction. Then it tapers off into a much larger area of moderate slow-time; counter-balancing tension or some such nonsense. Eventually that too tapers back off into Elibe standard time, some where around 60 leagues out from casting center."

"You still haven't answered my question Renault." Pent's hands were once again aglow with fiery red mana. "Perhaps you need further motivation to cease this pointless stalling?"

"I'm not stalling," Renault lied. The schemes of planeswalkers don't explain themselves. It's not my fault he made everything so complicated, so don't blame me for ARRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

Pent struck again with his inflame spell. This time he held it a full 2 minutes before releasing Renault screaming and sobbing.

"One last time Renault, why are our mages stationed in Ilia." Pent was already drawing in red mana for another attack. "Answer to our satisfaction or this next spell will take your life."

"You want the truth!?" Renault shouted. "You think you can handle Mark's burden. Fine, here it is! I spent weeks in fast-time Ilia with Mark and Canas running war room scenarios and crunching numbers. All three of us came to the same conclusion: even with a full coalition of nations we won't be able to muscle Phyrexia out of every territory in Elibe. So we devised a different strategy. We decided that instead of spreading our forces thin across Etruria, Ilia, Lycia, Bern, Nabata, and Sacae, instead of getting overwhelmed on six seperate fronts, we would pool all our resources. We would send the entire coalition to a single territory, lure the main body of the Phyrexian army to a favorable battlefield, and fight the invaders on equal footing. The question then of course became which territory. Where would the coalition make its stand; where would send our armies?

"And you chose Ilia?"

"We chose Ilia. In part because of the time effects. In part because of the defensive terrain and weather. In part because of what the ice dragons left behind. After the plague hubs and the vat fields we move north to fight the enemy on ice. Mark has planned ahead and sent all who will not be needed for the coming raids to secure the home front."

"That's…" For once in his life the sage was truly at a loss for words. Renault's news delivered a shock to Pent's system as jarring as any torture spell. "What will happen to the rest of Elibe? What will happen to Etruria?"

"Victory will come at a great cost in blood and treasure. But no cost will be greater then the cost of defeat. What will become of Etruria once the front shifts to Ilia, I can not say. But I can promise you that if the Phyrexians are not defeated then the entire world is lost, Etruria and all."

"You…you would have us abandon Etruria?" Fire and rage burned in Pent's eyes. His voice went supernaturally deep. His face went red. His hands clenched into crackling fists.

_Pent's about to go completely berserk,_ Renault thought. _Mark better get here soon._

"You would take the war to Ilia while our blessed homeland _rots_ beneath the invaders filthy footsteps." Motes of power danced across Pent's body. Energy engulfed him. Waves of force rolled off his blazing figure, bombarding Renault like stormy waters against a doomed ship. "You would fight for snow and ice while our cities fall, our libraries burn, and our people _die_ in the streets. Unacceptable Renault! UNACCEPTABLE!" Pent's rage sent out a wave of force so powerful it ripped the roof from the safe house, blasted out several windows, and sent Renault flying into a wall on the other side of the room.

A primal roar shook the hideout to its foundations, the collective cry of an elemental army. Renault knew that a berserk Pent was now the least of his problems. The possessed sage's tantrum had blown their cover and drawn the attention of Mark's assassin's. The spark elementals were the first to arrive, their plasmatic forms pulsing with strange light and a hint of intelligence. Then came the fire cats, burning elementals bound in the form of giant mountain lions. Next on the scene were the aquamoebas, churning masses of elemental water that engulfed and drowned their victims. They could assume any shape and bypass any physical barrier. Finally there came the air elementals, those terrible living cyclones that Mark had unleashed on the former Bandit King's wyvern riding mercenaries back in Sacae. They had human shaped torsos with muscular arms and simian heads suspended above the whirlwind that was their lower body. They had the safe-house completely surrounded.

And Still no sign of Mark.

Pent for his part had no reservations about facing an army alone. "To hell with Mark I will fight for Etruria!" Overflowing with power, channeling mana from every color of the spectrum, Pent strode forward to confront his assassins. His figure shrouded in deepest black and purest white, aglow in every imaginable shade of red and green and blue. He illuminated the hillside. He looked down upon the army sent to kill him and roared in defiance. "I live for my people!" The sage shouted madly. "I die for my people!"

With that, Pent unhinged himself. All the suppressed emotions that had built up during his years of running from the law and watching his homeland go to ruin under imperial rule came pouring out, gushing in torrents of hate and frustration. Pent released it all, emptying his mind of dark thoughts and redirecting them to his spell craft. The memories would add fuel his spell, give it strength to match his will. His hatred and anguish spoke of a will to destroy his enemies and destroy himself. His mana responded in kind.

And then Pent quite literally exploded.

His power washed over the hillside and unmade everything in its path. Boulders melted. Trees flash-burned and blasted to fiery splinters before their ashes even touch the ground. Like a fiery avalanche his sorcery cascaded down the hillside and crashed into elementals, dissipating them one by one. They could not withstand such a bombardment.

His spell complete, Pent collapsed lifeless outside what remained of his now leveled safe house.

Renault got up from his duck-and-cover position and assessed the situation. Pent wasn't moving. He was either dead or unconscious. He had tried to kill himself with that last spell.

Why?

An odd thought occurred to Renault. Could it be that Pent in his possessed state would actually_ want_ to die in order to protect his countrymen and his family from his own corrupted power? Perhaps he would rather cede his talents as a sage and as a statesman to an early grave then a mad spirit, because the grave could do no harm.

That had to be it. That was Pent, an altruist to the very end. He would give his life a thousand times over for the safety of Etruria.

In which case Pent couldn't be dead. The spirit would never allow such a sacrifice and the spirit was in control.

Renault crept closer to the collapsed sage and checked for signs of life. He had a pulse and he was breathing.

He'd been in worse spots.

_What in the nine hells happened here? Looks like a friggin bomb just went off. _

"Finally showed up, eh? Took you long enough, I tapped the summoning stone a half hour ago. Didn't you get the signal?"

_Yeah, like just this second. Summoning stones been on the fritz since I took it behind the time curtain. I think the temporal disturbances screw around with its magic or something. Canas is looking into it. _

Mark's gaze darted from Renault, to unconscious Pent, to the ruined hideout, then back to Renault again.

_So, what did I miss?

* * *

_

**And remember people, reviews are our friend. Your feedback helps, so let me know what you think about where the stories going. Especially if you've been reading since the beginning and haven't left a tell yet. Its always nice to know who's reading. **


	18. Spirit of Resistance

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* * *

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Chapter 19 will most likely be the first real chapter of the Lycian arc, which will feature EPIC battle scenes with shit loads of blood and gore. Keeping true to the MTG canon from Invasion cycle, I will portray the Phyrexians as the unthinking, unfeeling, godless killing machines that Yawgmoth built them to be. As a result, the rating on this Fic may or may not be raised to (M) in future chapters, as the story's central focus becomes more and more violent. Although honestly, I don't know how I can do worse then some of the shit I already pulled it past chapters.

**Whatever, in the meantime here's Chapter 18. I still don't own Fire Emblem. There's a surprise. **

**Chapter 18: Spirit of Resistance**

It took a full dozen bishops armed with an assortment of sleeping staves and spell silencers to keep Pent tranquilized and disarmed while Renault worked his magic. Following the incident at the Reglay Estate, it was all they could do to prevent the possessed sage from leveling their church and killing their leader. Mark was on standby in case something went wrong, although at Renault's insistence he would not be using any of his powers during the exorcism.

"Come on Renault, just one Soul Nova. It'll blast the ghost right out of him."

"Absolutely not, your magic will do nothing more then irritate it."

"Says who?" challenged Mark.

"Says the collective wisdom of every exorcist in the church," Renault answered readily. "Something you did to this spirit when it was alive and had a body drove it mad. Mad enough to come back from the grave, possess Lord Pent, and sabotage your plans for the defense of Elibe. This thing _hates_ you Mark. It hates you with a passion that defies death, and it uses that hatred as a buffer to violently resist your magic."

"No human alive or dead has the power to resist a planeswalker."

"I wouldn't be so sure. You saw what Pent and his ghost did to your elementals. You yourself said those summonings were strong enough to kill negators, and negators in turn are strong enough to kill you. Who's to say what Pent is capable of in his current state?"

"This is true…" Mark conceded with chagrin. "Shame he's too unstable to fight Phyrexian's with that damn ghost inside him. It would be useful to have another superpower on the battlefield." The planeswalker paused to consider. "What are the odds he'll retain any permanent enhancements once the spirit is vanquished?"

"Improbable, but not unprecedented," responded the saint. "The church has only confirmed 15 such cases in the past 800 years. That put's the odds at about 1 in 32,000. Theoretically it could happen, but…Hang on! I think I'm breaking through!"

Indeed, there was a noticeable change in Pent's condition as Renault waved his staff above the sedated sage and his bishops chanted holy verses. Pent did not awaken, but something inside him seemed to be freaking out. His features contorted. His fingers clawed at empty air. He growled and barked and cursed in tongues.

And then something invisible hit Renault in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and breaking his communion with the spirits. As if on cue Pent's eyes flickered open, still glowing sinister with an otherworldly presence. The possessed sage began thrashing about and the congregation of bishops redoubled their efforts to keep the mad thing under control.

"Son of a bitch," Renault wheezed.

"It countered your exorcism spell and reflected it back at you?" asked a somewhat amused Mark. It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact. Mark had traced the entire event in second sight.

"That's never happened before, never in the history of this church." Renault admitted. "This is either the strongest ghost I've ever encountered or the angriest."

"Really…" Mark mused.

"And no, before you ask, this doesn't change anything. Church protocol is still in play. You're not casting Soul Nova on Pent."

Renault was now making a second attempt to breakthrough to the spirit realm and banish Pent's tormentor.

"_Hey Renault," _Mark quipped in telepathic speech so as not to be overheard by the other bishops. _"Just between you and me, who do you think it is?"_

"_Who do you mean?" _Renault shot back, knowing full well that Mark was a mind reader and could easily "hear" his active thoughts.

"_Come now, surely you've put some thought into it. The ghost's identity: who's possessing Lord Pent?"_

"_I have my theories," _Renault answered evasively.

"_Then by all means, do tell." _

"_You're not going to like it,"_ Renault warned.

"_Try me. I'll take it like a man."_

"_Very well. I'm thinking it's one of your old associates from the Tactician's Academy. Someone who was very close to you and felt betrayed by your refusal to lend aid…" _

"_Impossible."_ Mark thought-spoke decisively. _"No one at the academy had that kind of power. Our mages were passably decent at best. Pent's enhanced abilities prove that in life, his possessor was a master of magic in all its forms. And furthermore, if I may be so blunt, no one at the academy is that fucking stupid. First and foremost tacticians are men of reason. Our emotions can only distract us for so long; in the end we see every situation through the prism of logic. Not even death can change this."_

"_I disagree,"_ Renault responded plainly.

"_I know these people Renault. None of them would try to screw me over from beyond the grave. They're better then that. They're better then _**this** _for God's sake."_ Mark gestured at Lord Pent's flailing form with disgust.

_You assume too much planeswalker. It is as you say, the ghost of a powerful spell caster will transfer his magic to a host body during procession. This is one way to acquire powers from a spectral source, but it is not the only way. Nor is it the most common. More often it is something as simple as rage. When we die we undergo a sort of spiritual catharsis through which our emotions are converted to raw power. Anger is the strongest emotion. This is why enraged spirits are always the strongest. From what we know of this spirit and its violent nature…"_

"_Alright, alright. I get it. First point debunked. I still don't believe this ghost is from the Tactician's Academy. You'll need more then your church mumbo-jumbo to convince me one of my childhood friends is responsible for this betrayal."_

"_Again you assume too much. A while back you said 'not even death can deprive tacticians of their reason' or something of the sort. You're wrong Mark. Death changes everything, reason most of all. Spirits that can't cross over go mad in our world, and the longer they stick around the crazier they get. You believe the ghosts of your murdered friends would not betray you in their right mind and you may be right, but you can not possibly predict how they will act when all reason fails them and they are left with nothing but their anger."_

"_Well reasoned Renault, but I believe I have a more practical theory."_

"_And what would that be?" _

"_Nergal_. _He has enough magic to give Pent a sizeable boost, consistent with what we've seen so far. And he has reason enough to want me and all my followers dead. Nergal's essence could have taken hold in any of my soldiers, but naturally he would choose Pent. Strongest of my lieutenants. Former apprentice to the archsage, and the magic user closest to him in power. Who else would Nergal view as a worthy host for his twisted spirit?_"

"_It's definitely not Nergal." _This time it was Renault's turn to vehemently deny what he believed to be a false identification. _"I've known his presence. It's unmistakable. Nergal's spirit is evil in its purest form; the type of evil that revels in death and suffering. The ghost inside Pent is enraged and probably insane. But it's not evil. I see into the spirit and I see no darkness, only anger and grief."_

"_Then it's not Nergal," _Mark agreed. _"So much for that idea…"_

"_It was a good theory."_

"_Not good enough. And still it begs the question, who's the ghost?"_

"_We'll know soon enough," _Renault said one last time in thought-speech before shouting out loud. "Second exorcism spell incoming! Back me up through the counter spell."

The armed bishops quickened their chant while Renault rhythmically waved his church scepter. Brilliant golden light gathered at the tip of his holy instrument. Renault aimed the light-blessed scepter dead center over Pent's possessed heart, spoke the word of command, and released his spell.

It was a futile effort. The result was much the same as the first attempt, only this time Renault was prepared for the blowback.

"Huh, That sucked." Mark spoke up. "You going for third-times-a-charm or can I Soul Nova this bastard?"

"Save your spells Mark, I still have a hand to play." Renault reached into the folds of his robe and brought forth the holy book Aureola. "This ghost has proven resistant to all conventional forms of exorcism. However, there are other ways to banish spirits." Renault turned the pages of his sacred tome, searching for one particular passage.

Mark was the first one to feel it, the terrible power emanating from Renault's chant. He had felt it once before at the time of his ascension. It had literally been burned into his memory, the horrifying primal fury of draconic magic. He felt it again dancing from verse to verse in the pages of Aureola, from the scriptures of Elimine to the lips of her prophet.

"Oh yeah, there he goes," Mark announced. "He's doing something."

Not that it needed announcing, everyone in the room could clearly see Pent's body thrashing about more violently and apparently in more anguish then ever before. Anguish or rage, it was hard to tell.

"What ever you're doing it's working. Keep it up Renault."

The chant intensified. Pent's thrashing became erratic as the wraith lost its hold and the sage fought to regain control of his body. Spirit clashed with spirit. Will clashed with will. Unearthly wails echoed inside Pent. For the briefest moment a shadowy appendage passed through the flesh of his forearm and flailed free while Pent's arm hung limp. Renault's prayer was forcing the cursed thing to surface.

The chant reached its crescendo. Pent screamed a terrible, terrible scream that ended in a heaving gag. Then it happened. The sage half coughed, half vomited, and expelled his possessor in a great black cloud of ichor and necroplasm. Twelve bishops immediately had their staves trained on the writhing, screaming ghost. With great difficulty the enraged apparition was subdued and shackled with light magic.

Meanwhile, Renault and Mark tended to the recovering sage of House Reglay. Renault was legitimately concerned for Pent's well-being. Mark had other motives, mainly getting Lord Pent battle worthy in time for his grand plan to come to fruition.

"_I want him fighting fit in 72 hours."_ Mark thought/commanded so that only Renault could hear him.

"_I'm not sure that's going to be possible..."_

"_It has to be. You were there when we ran the simulations. Without Pent the Etrurian Mage Corps have no general and our leading assault force is impotent."_

"_You have other options. You can sub in the Draco Sages of Arcadia while Pent recovers. Rreserve the Etrurian forces for..."_

"_No. Arcadia's sages will be escorting me on my priority assignment while coalition forces conduct military operations in Lycia. _

"I'll be fine…" Pent mumbled, startling both the Saint and the Planeswalker. Slowly, weakly, the sage lifted himself to his feet and took a groggy step forward.

Renault gaped in disbelief "How the hell are you awake already? I just removed a wraith from your body with dragon sorceries. You should be in a coma for at least six days."

"_Better question: how did he overhear our chatter? I'm using mind-to-mind thought speech. He shouldn't be able too..." _

"I can still hear you," Pent groaned. "I've got a splitting headache and you're not helping. Get out of my head."

"That's interesting…" Mark regarded the sage with an appraising eye. His extrasensory felt the intangible, saw what Renault and the others could not see. The planeswalker's face broke into a wide grin.

"What?" Renault suddenly seemed all the more worried.

"Nothing, nothing." Mark circled Pent like a hunter circling its prey.

"Um…Mark…what are you doing?"

"I was just wondering..." Mark's voice trailed off. He was standing still now. "How would Pent react if I were to…oh, I don't know…let's say…."

The planeswalker moved with impossible speed. Renault's eyes couldn't even follow the motions, couldn't even make sense of the blur between action and inaction. One moment he was standing perfectly still. A split second later he was levitating 10 feet off the ground hurling mana bombs at Pent.

Pent responded with instinctive swiftness. Blue mana engulfed the sage and solidified into a suit of quicksilver armor. The conjured battle-gear countered Mark's spells on impact and sent furious little wisps of blue mana flying back at the planeswalker. Mark took the hits and flickered out of existence.

"Jackpot, 1 in 32,000!" Mark whooped. The planeswalker reappeared at ground level and gave the sage a congratulatory slap on the back. "Look out Phyrexia, there's a new arch-sage in town. Pent's bringing the heat!"

Pent gave no response, aside from an irritated glare. The tide of blue mana receded and the sage lost his silver sheen.

"So now that you're back to normal we're cool again, right? You ready to bury the hatchet and get back to business, saving the world and what not?

"Renault, go help your bishops I.D. that wraith. I need to talk to Mark. Alone."

Renault was more then happy to comply. He knew where this was going, and he didn't want to be around Mark or Pent when tempers flared.

Pent shot a look back at the congregation of bishops working feverishly to put a human face on his possessor, which was still struggling violently against it's ethereal restraints and occasionally had to be subdued with a blast from their divining tomes.

"Come planeswalker," Pent spoke coolly. "I think it best we take this outside. A church is no place for men of war."

* * *

In the absence of the holy ones, Mark expected to receive a severe scolding from his lieutenant. Pent had seen the worst side of him: the cold, calculating, tactician who decides who shall live and who shall die with godlike arrogance. It was the essence of his genius, an attribute he simultaneously embraced and reviled.

"You think me cruel." Mark spoke matter-of-factly. "You think that through the course of my ascension I lost touch with my humanity, that I've forgotten what it means to value human life."

"I may think something of the sort," Pent seethed. Mark's psychic senses could feel animosity rolling off the sage in hateful waves. This was not the crazed delirium of a tortured spirit. This malice was his own.

"You don't know me Pent. You don't know me and so I can't expect you to understand. This is how I am. This is how I have always been. When everyone and everything I care for stands on the precipice of destruction, I do whatever it takes to secure victory. So it was against Lundgren. So it was against Nergal. So it will be against Phyrexia."

"Ah yes, Nergal," Pent spat out the name with contempt and loathing. "How appropriate it is that you should cite your campaign against the Dark Druid as proof of your consistency, because if I remember correctly that magnificent campaign of yours ended with every soldier under your command burning in dragon fire. Myself and Louise and Athos included," Pent did a 180 and locked eyes with the planeswalker. "You led us to our death Mark. We trusted you with our lives and you led us all to our death."

By this point all color had drained from Mark's face. Pent had delivered a sharp emotional blow to Mark's planeswalker body—a body composed entirely of projected thoughts and emotions. It was all the more sensitive in its response to Pent, as it had been at the Tactician's Academy when Jess had begged for her life.

"That's…" Mark was truly at a loss for words, both from the sting of Pent's rebuke and from the surprise that he actually recalled such a memory. "How could you possibly know that?"

"The dead remember you Mark. I inherited their memories of Elibe in better times. I remember your war. I remember your genuis. I remember the day it failed us. The ghost that took hold of me was none other than the shade of Athos, who served under your command at the final battle of Valor. The barrier you cast over Arcadia prevented him from reverting to form when Elibe's timeline reset. For three hundred years his spirit wondered lost in the ether between worlds, until he found a suitable anchor to the mortal coil. Until he found me…"

"_Anger without reason,"_ Mark remembered Renault's words. All the pieces were coming together. Mark had wronged Athos in life and in death. Even in his right mind the arch-sage must have been furious. And after three hundred years of purgatory the better part of his mind had left him. Such a thing, three hundred years of pain and misery for one of the greatest heroes the world had ever known. The planeswalker bowed his head in shame. _"Dear God, what have I done?"_

"More than you know," Pent scolded. "You have yet to show any remorse for your crimes in Lycia. You unleashed those godless killing machines in Pharae and now hundreds of innocent people are dead by their hand. What do you have to say for yourself planeswalker?"

"I say to you what I have already said to Renault, that their death will not be in vain." Mark took on a decidedly less mournful tone and went on the defensive. "Everything is unfolding according to plan, their loss is the first in a sequence of strategic events that will eventually bring Lycia and Bern into the coalition and give us the strength to crush Phyrexia. That's the endgame Pent. Phyrexia must be defeated or every man, woman, and child on Elibe is as good as dead. Nothing else matters."

"We are agreed, complete victory over the Phyrexian invaders is the only acceptable outcome of this war." Pent argued back with a passion that matched the planeswalker's adamant defense. "However, the threat of invasion does NOT give you a license to kill anyone you see fit in the name of victory. Those deaths in Pharae and Santuraz weren't necessary losses. They were completely avoidable. That's not a 'sacrifice' Mark. That's murder, and it's unacceptable."

"What exactly are you implying Lord Pent? You're a hard one to read…"

"Damn it Mark, stop trying to read my mind and listen to me! You'll hear exactly what I'm trying to say. You got lazy and you screwed up. You screwed up big time and now innocent people are dead, again! There were plenty of ways to go about procuring the allegiance of Lycia and Bern that didn't involve razing villages and impaling townsfolk. I know it and I think you know it as well, though it now seems you would rather delude yourself with the defense of necessity then man up to your mistakes." Pent paused to collect his thoughts. "I can not speak for Renault, as he has since made clear he was unaware of the full scope of your plan. But you Mark, you have shown a blatant and inexcusable disregard for human life in your secret scheming. If this is how you are going to fight the war I want no part in it."

That did it. Pent had hit a nerve. "Do not presume to know my state of mind!" Mark flashed angrily. Literally, flash fires erupted from his head, limbs, and torso, as he spoke. Mark was still learning how to segregate his moods from his thought-projected body and was prone to dramatic changes in appearance when his temper got the better of him. A lesser man then Pent may have found the display intimidating. "I am not some merciless fiend who kills for pleasure, nor do I cut corners in my craft. There is planned purpose in my every action, whether you see it or not. The coalition benefits from my actions in Lycia.

"How can you say such things?" Pent roared, his righteous anger rising to match the planeswalker's burning intensity. "What method is there to your madness? How do we benefit from THIS!" Pent conjured the images and sensations of the of the Pharean massacre to the forefront of his thoughts: the harrowing screams of agony, the sickening scent of burning flesh, the murderous surge of corrupted earth. And those eyes, those terrible, hateful sparks that glow with inhuman malice in the dark of night. Lord Pent packed the images into a ball of psychic energy and with a telepathic command, threw it at Mark.

Mark winced, but did not back down. "Your passion is admirable Pent, but your argument is one of ignorance. We are agreed that the coalition's first target must be the central plague hub in Ostia. To this extent, a ploy that diverts Phyrexia's attention to Lundgren gives us the distinct advantage of dividing the enemy's forces and controlling their movement through misdirection."

"Phyrexia has _thousands_ of soldiers guarding each plague hub. You 'misdirected' _two_ of them to Castle Caelin. That hardly counts as 'dividing the enemy's forces' Mark."

"Perhaps not," Mark conceded. "But what would happen if those Phyrexians arrived in Caelin and got there asses handed to them. Xod expects his negators to annihilate castle town without taking as much as a single scratch. How will he react when they fall in battle?"

"That's a decision he'll never have to make, because there's no way in hell Caelin's soldiers can defeat Phyrexian negators," Pent countered. "It's not possible."

"But suppose they did," Mark argued. "Both negators go down and word gets back to Xod that a military presence in Caelin is offering serious resistance to his operations, so much so that they even pose a threat to Phyrexian negators. Follow through on my thinking Lord Pent: how do you suppose Xod would respond to such a development?"

"With an army," Pent responded.

"And where would that army come from?"

"The closest full-scale installation to Castle Caelin…"

"Which would be?"

"Ostia Plague Hub Alpha. Our target…" Pent ran this new information through his brilliant mind and made some lightning reassessments. At last, the sage had a line-of-sight on Mark's true agenda. "This was never about bringing the Knights of Lycia into the coalition. Their order is broken beyond repair. All this time, you've been trying to cut Phyrexian troop levels in Ostia."

"That's the truth of it," Mark admitted.

"What of Bern?"

"Bern still has a role to play. The kingdom's strength is diminished, but still significant. I would have their wyvern riders and their assassins among our ranks."

"That's why you sent the Four Fangs to assassinate Lundgren," Pent put the rest of the pieces together and extrapolated Mark's master plan. "You want them to be present when Phyrexia attacks. You want them to die, so that the Black Fang and by extension Bern, is forced to take up arms against Phyrexia in retribution."

"At least one of them has to die, yes. Preferably Linus or Lloyd. Or both."

"One problem," Pent pointed out.

"Shoot."

"Your entire plan hinges on the negators being defeated once they arrive in Caelin, which isn't going to happen."

"Of course it will," Mark assured him. "I've been pulling the strings on this whole operation since day one. Rest assured I've taken extraordinary measures to ward Castle Caelin from a Phyrexian assault."

"What could you have possibly done to combat a pair of negators without giving yourself away to Phyrexia?"

"Oh, I worked my magic here and there. But Caelin can credit you, Lord Pent, for her greatest defense, because you've just given me the best idea I've ever had. Hell, we just might get some use out of Lycia after all."

"What, what did I do?" asked a confused Pent.

"The dead remember Elibe as it used to be, you said something to that effect," Mark recalled. "And they can transfer their memories and powers to living beings through possession, Correct?"

"Obviously, I'm living proof," said Lord Pent. "How is that relevant to the defense of Caelin?"

"We also know based on events that transpired in old Elibe that the ghosts of the Eight Legends are sealed in sacred places throughout the land," Mark continued brainstorming. He did not directly address Pent's question…yet. "Furthermore, these spirits can be bound to legendary weapons to imbue them with great power."

"…Still don't see what any of this has to do with Caelin."

"Oh you will Pent. You will."

* * *

Eliwood and Hector had just finished their sparring routine and were about ready to return to Castle Ostia, when a most unusual occurrence caught their eye. In broad daylight what appeared to be a pair of shooting stars materialized as if out of nowhere and fell from the sky. The falling objects landed with a magnificent flash in a clearing not half a league's distance from their current position, at which time twin pillars of lightning and flame shot forth like summoning beacons and emblazoned upon the heavens a quite peculiar symbol: a figure-eight with dragon's wings encrypted in a circular rune. The young master's of Pherae and Ostia knew not what the symbol meant or why it felt so familiar, only that they were compelled by magic and by fate to investigate its source.

With their knightly escorts in tow, Eliwood and Hector made their way to the clearing, wherein they discovered a pair of enormous weapons hovering in a sphere of florescent orange light: a fiery greatsword fit for a giant of a man, and an equally imposing war axe pulsing with thunderous might.

And the sphere spoke unto them _**Come forth, champions of Roland. Know the power bequeathed to thee by right of toil, and fear not pain or death. Though you stand in the presence of enemies, they shall fall and you shall persevere.**_

In magic's thrall, Eliwood and Hector obeyed the voice only they could hear. Eliwood laid hands on the hilt of Durandal, the Sword of Sacred Fire. Hector grasped he handle of Armads the Thunder Axe. One touch each was all it took.

One touch unleashed a thousand memories, from the spectral cores of Durbans and Roland to the corporal husks of Eliwood and Hector. Out they poured in an overwhelming deluge: memories of war and peace, life and death, love and hate, a thousand years in the blink of an eye. And with those memories came power, so much power: the strength to fell dragons, the courage to face any enemy undaunted, the wisdom to rule nations. It was glorious, and yet it was all at once so very overwhelming a burden for two youths of Lycia to bear.

Eliwood glanced at Hector, and Hector at Eliwood. Gone was any semblance of childish innocence from their gaze. In this surge of awareness they were once again battle hardened veterans.

"What do you remember?" Eliwood asked.

"Everything," Hector frowned. "And a bunch of new crap I really wish I didn't have to know about; Phyrexians and global ruin, and all that garbage. Oh, and apparently Mark is a god now. Totally didn't see that one coming."

"Aye, Mark's a planeswalker. Good thing too, as long as he's here we actually have a fighting chance."

"Bah, as long as I got something to swing my axe at there's a fighting chance." Hector scoffed. "And Mark is still a pansy."

"In any event, he left us a mission." Eliwood spoke with great dedication to his duty, as always. "We're supposed to teleport to castle Caelin with his magic and kill a pair of negators, then hunker down and hold the castle in a siege when Phyrexia counterattacks. He wants us ready to move out in…"

"…Twenty-two hours, I know, I know. I got the same psychic briefing you did." Hector grumbled. "Twenty-two hours, what the hell? That's not even a full day. What a ball-buster."

Eliwood couldn't help but chuckle. That was classic, compulsive Mark. And this was classic, boorish Hector. And here he was, Lord Eliwood, Pherae's heir, in the middle of it all with sword in hand. Though he despised war and all the suffering it caused, somehow it all felt right. On the frontlines again, slicing through hordes of unnatural enemies with Hector at his back and the fate of the world in his hand.

"Heh. Just like old times."

* * *

**There's Chapter 18. In case you can't tell, or in case you've never read any MTG novels, I'm trying to work an Urza-Barrin type relationship into the interactions of Mark and Pent. Mark being the haughty planeswalker (Urza) and Pent being the powerful Mage Master who occasionally has to slap said planeswalker upside the head (metaphorically speaking) and challenge his moral high ground (Barrin). Lest the planeswalker forget himself and start doing shit he really shouldn't be doing. **

**Other possible MTG relationships that may or may not get worked into the story as I see fit: Gerrard-Hannah complex with Pent and Louise, Thaddeus-Agate complex with Hector and Eliwood or Linus and Lloyd. **

**Further revelations concerning the upcoming Ilia ark, hinted at many times in Chapter 17, are on hiatus until I tie up some loose ends in Lycia. Start guessing as to "What the Ice Dragons Left Behind" was a reference to. **

…**All this is of course assuming I write my ass off over the summer. Reviews motivate me to write more, so keep em coming.**

**Seriously, send review. Yawgmoth commands it! **


	19. Brother's Blood

**So I've been getting back into the competitive MTG circuit, and I actually won my first shadowmoor draft. I first-picked a flame spout and second picked a boggart ram-gang, which put me solid into R/G from the start. Then I managed to draft valleymaker, knollspine dragon, knollspine invocation, (foil) rage reflection, Wort the Raid-mother, 2 puncture bolts, and 2 crabapple cohorts. I wound up with a pretty solid R/G aggro deck that beat the crap out of everything else. **

**The guy to my left first picked jaws of stone and tried to go into red, but I totally cut him off. He wound up going into blue after getting Oona and Isleback Spawn in his second pack. Why is this even worth mentioning? Because I had to play against this guy in the first round. First game: he top decks Oona and just destroys me, it wasn't even close. I won the next two games, advanced to second round, and went undefeated the rest of the night. Good times with MTG.**

**And somewhere in between drafting Shadowmoor and raiding Karazahn (that's WoW talk for a kick ass good time) I managed to hammer out another chapter. I still don't own Fire Emblem. **

**Chapter 19: Brother's Blood**

_**Wretched, pathetic flesh beasts…**_

Xod's negator took a horizontal swipe with its scythe-clawed left hand and ripped through a full battle line of Caelin foot soldiers. The halberdiers fell to ground in a tattered bloody mess, their armor shredded and their chests torn open. Its partner followed up with a consuming discharge of napalm gel, just to make sure they were all dead. Which judging by the subsequent screams, they hadn't been.

_**Repulsive little creatures, all of them. Obstacles on the path of progress, eye-blights upon Yawgmoth's glorious vision. They should all be Phyrexians.**_

A well aimed ballista bolt hit the napalm-spewing negator in an exposed joint right between the neck and shoulders. The steel tipped projectile might as well have been made of paper for all the good it did against Phyrexian alloy. Hissing in irritation the negator ripped the bolt free from the chink in its shoulder plating, lit it on fire, and hurled it back like a javelin in the direction from which it came. The ensuing conflagration and the death wails that followed told the negator it had hit its mark.

_**So fragile they are, with their bodies of blood and bone. Is this nature's selection or is there a god so cruel as to punish his creations with the folly of flesh, this horrible meat construction that grows old and withers and dies? **_

A brash, young paladin with too much confidence in his lance and neither the sense nor experience to know his limits tried to charge the negator that had flayed his forward phalanx. Kicking his steed into a full gallop, the knight commander brought his silver weapon to bear and prepared to strike. The negator saw him coming and didn't even try to dodge. The knight posed no discernable threat to Xod's elite assassins. None of these flesh beasts did. The negator allowed the foolish man to jab at its knee caps with his primitive stick weapon while it fired off a round of kill-spells from its arm-cannon. The sorceries hit a trio of Caelin mages some ways off and struck them down with blight, turning their skin to rot. Three bare skeletons fell to ground surrounded by puddles of black fungal ooze that had formerly been the rest of their bodies. The negator fired off a few more rounds before finally growing bored with the poking attacks of its feeble foe. Casually, the negator grabbed the paladin's horse around its under-belly and with its rider still mounted, hurled the poor animal 15 feet straight into the air. The steed landed on top of the knight, crushing him beneath its flailing bulk. In a final display of supremacy the negators mutilated the paladin and the horse with their enormous scythe-claws and mashed the corpses of both flesh beasts into the ground until they were nothing more than an indistinguishable red stain on the earth.

_**They are all of them vermin, unfit to be used even as slaves. Twenty of them break under the workload of a single harvester drone. Their design is fatally flawed and must be terminated in the name of progress. The weak must die for the strong to multiply.**_

A mixed platoon of axe fighters and myrmidons swarmed the negators in overwhelming numbers. There were forty of them, all armed with hammers and heavy blades. They sought to sunder their foe's armor and give the rest of Caelin's army a chance to do some damage. Phyrexia would give them no such opportunity. The negators preempted Caelin's pitiful attempt at an offensive strike with a hyper-sonic screech, specifically designed to blast out fleshy ear-drums. The cry rippled across the battlefield like a shockwave. All who heard it fell to their knees clutching bleeding holes in the side of their head, disoriented to the point of paralysis. With the advancing flesh beasts frozen dead in their tracks, the negators once more invoked the curse of rancid earth and impaled everyone in sight.

Enough was enough, Caelin's army was done. Her best soldiers were in bloody ribbons. Her archers and mages were reduced to rot. Loyalty to a liege was one thing, but this? This wasn't knight's honor, this was suicide. The surviving cavalry broke ranks and fled in terror.

Lundgren's forces made no further attempt to halt the negators in their advance on castle Caelin. Phyrexia's agents marched on unopposed until at long last, their objective was in sight. The stone walls of castle town broke over the horizon. Within those walls the aristocracy of the ruling House lived in obscene opulence, hoarding their nation's treasure. On this day all the wealth in the world would not save them. They're coffers would become their tombs. Their treasures would become burial relics. The wrath of Phyrexia was upon them. By the Overlord's command, none would survive.

The negator's charged with a speed that defied nature's laws. Nothing that size should have been able to run that fast. Like living bullets they shot forth, blinding blurs of metal death on the prowl.

_**All fleshlings must perish. Their bones will pave the road to the end of evolution, as was foretold in the Phyrexian scriptures. So it shall be written. And so it shall be done.**_

* * *

"I don't like this. I don't like this at all," Lloyd reflected upon the status of his mission. Something was wrong. "We've made it all the way to the throne room and no one's even thought to stop us. This has to be some kind of trap…"

"It is possible that while Lundgren takes hostile action in Sacae, he leaves his castle grounds under-staffed," suggested Uhai.

"No, Lloyd's right," said Legault. "No marquess ever leaves his holdings completely unguarded. And it's not just the castle grounds; I haven't seen a single soldier since we got here. I don't like it either, something's up."

"What are these Lycian fools playing at?" Lloyd spouted in frustration. "What trickery is this? Knights don't just let four armed strangers walk into their lord's throne room, its unheard of!"

"But we haven't even seen any Lycian knights." Legault reminded him.

"I know. That's what's worrying me." Lloyd's hand brushed over the hilt of his sword. "Stay alert, this entire set up reeks."

"Speaking of things that reek, here's your damn scapegoat." Linus stumbled into the room with the bulk of a dead Phyrexian flung over his shoulder. "Thanks for the help ass holes."

"Linus, have you noticed anything strange about this mission?" Lloyd asked his younger brother in a somewhat patronizing tone.

"What, you mean that there's not a guard in the entire place? Of course I noticed, I'm not an idiot Lloyd!"

"No guards," Lloyd repeated. "That doesn't bother you at all?"

"Why would it? Makes things that much easier for us," said Linus "I mean come on Lloyd, everything doesn't have to be a trap or a conspiracy. Uhai's idea sounded pretty good. Maybe Lundgren just decided to send all his soldiers to Sacae."

"Damn it Linus, that's not how armies work! There's always a rear guard behind the forward phalanx. Even at full mobilization there should still be a solid defense on the home front. This is all wrong!" Lloyd's every instinct was telling him to abort the mission and head back to Bern. Too much was out of place: a beloved marquess struck dead by the plague, a new leige plotting an invasion of Sacae, a shady employer who fashioned himself a master of puppets, and now disappearing armies. Something was terribly wrong in Caelin, and now more then ever Lloyd was convinced this was not something the Black Fang should get involved in. "This isn't right. None of this is right! There should be cavaliers in the court yard and soldiers in the throne room. There should be an archer in every guard tower and a ballista crew on every rampart. What the hell is going on?"

"Incoming!" Uhai warned from his look out perch on the second floor. "We've got cavalry in bound from the south gate, a full squad. I'm counting eight cavaliers and four paladins."

"Threat assessment?"

"Low. Most of them are injured too badly to lift a sword. They must be returning from battle. I'd recommend non-lethal force and interrogation. We may be able to learn something from this bunch."

"Agreed. Linus! Legault! I want information from these knights. Don't kill them until we find out what they know!" Lloyd commanded.

The mangled unit came barging into the castle, bloody and battered. They didn't even bother dismounting before they entered the castle, much to Lloyd's surprise. Surely it was not normal behavior for a knight to drag the filth of the battlefield into his Lord's estate. Nor did they pay any special attention to the Four Fangs. The cavaliers acted as if the assassins were supposed to be in their castle and seemingly welcomed them as brothers in arms.

"Our shwordshmen yesht livesh, unbelievshable!" one of the paladins exclaimed upon seeing Linus and Lloyd. The Black Fang commanders noticed an awkward slurring in his words, like that of a drunkard. It was as though the paladin couldn't hear his own voice. "I couldsh have shworn thoshe monshtersh killed yoush off on the lasht charge." The paladin dismounted and removed his helmet, revealing a middle aged face topped with short green hair, a mustache, and a goatee. The Fangs saw that the man was bleeding profusely from both his ears. That explained the slurred speech.

_Where have I seen that before? _Legault thought to himself. With a shudder the memory hit him: the village they had passed in Pharae. The impaled villagers all had similar wounds around their ears.

"And they came back to defend our liege. That's a sight for sore eyes, eh Eagler?" grinned the rescued knight on the back of the paladin's horse, a well-muscled bald man in shredded silver armor. Lloyd grimaced at the sight of him. His condition spoke of an impossible struggle; nothing short of the dragons of antiquity could have done that kind of damage to armor of that quality. His pauldron domes were bashed open. His cuirass was punctured by four equally spaced and perfectly parallel diagonal cuts. It looked as though he had actually been raked by the claws of a dragon. But that was impossible. Dragons weren't real. Not anymore at least, the last of them had vanished from the realm close to a thousand years ago. What then had happened to these knights?

"Too little too late Wallace," sighed the fiery haired cavalier in crimson armor who rode at the silver knight's side. In all his life Lloyd had never heard a man sound so defeated, so completely and utterly devoid of purpose as this red knight. "We met the metal monsters with our full strength and we couldn't stop them. Nothing could stop them…" The tormented cavalier looked up at his knightly mentor and spoke bitterly. "We failed in our duty as knights. We failed the marquess. We failed Caelin. What are we now if not the most unworthy of wretches? What's the point of fighting on?"

"Pull yourself together mate!" a dark haired cavalier in green armor shouted out to his angsting companion. "None of this was our fault. We fought the good fight, and we did well enough to escape with our lives. I have no regrets. You shouldn't either."

"But we ran from the enemy! We showed cowardice in battle!"

"We survived," the silver knight identified as Lord Wallace said bluntly. "We live to fight another day. That's not cowardice, that's good judgment. Think boy, would you study this new enemy and learn more of its strengths and weaknesses, so that the knights of Caelin can one day strike back against Phyrexia with our enduring might? Or would you cast your armies into a meat grinder for fool pride?"

"Not for pride Wallace, for honor!"

"Boy, you wouldn't even know the difference! Sain saved you life, you'd be rotting on a spike or worse if he hadn't pulled you out of the blighted earth before the curse went off! You think him a coward because he ran from the enemy; he who dodged seven rounds of cannon fire and weaved in and out of poison spikes to get you out of the dead zone in one piece!? You should aspire to be such a coward!"

"A knight fights to defend his liege…"

The Four Fangs listened to this back and forth between Wallace and Kent and managed to piece together a patchwork summary of events. They matched up the description of the Phyrexian assailants that terrorized Caelin's army with their own findings in Pharae and recognized the assailants as one and the same. And now for the first time, they saw how craftily they had been manipulated by their employer. This wasn't an assassination run. This was something else altogether, something far more dangerous and far more sinister than an assassin's blade. This was a human sacrifice. They had been given a dead Phyrexian to drag across the continent. They had paraded it's corpse among the populace like it was some mundane affair, all the while ignorant of the hidden peril. They had come into contact with the creatures oily blood. They had been tainted by its scent, marked for death by those who hunt the enemies of Phyrexia.

They had been drawn into the hunter's path…

An ear splitting shriek rang out from over the mountains, crashing down upon castle town like the screeching gales of an Ilian blizzard. It was an omen of imminent death, a call to the grave for the whole world to hear. Lloyd heard the infernal sound and lost all awareness of his surroundings. His eardrums ruptured and his vision clouded. His head throbbed and his legs gave out. That was all just from the beginning of the shriek; Lloyd never even heard the end of it. No one ever did. Halfway though his senses failed him completely and he blacked out. When next he awoke Lloyd, found himself in a very different scene. Castle town was no more. In its place stood a graveyard of charred stone; smoldering monoliths that jabbed forth like the blackened bones of some ancient leviathan. Billowing black clouds of smoke cast unnatural darkness over the area at midday's sun. Alternating patches of ash, ooze, and earth blight painted a morbid color scheme of black, brown, and grey over the ruined landscape. Caelin's veteran soldiers were nowhere to be found. Perhaps they had fled. Perhaps they had already been slaughtered. Or perhaps the manipulator behind the scenes had seen fit to remove them from harm's way and put them to use elsewhere. Whatever the case, they were gone. Only the Four Fangs remained, lying dazed on the floor of Lundgren's throne. Only the Four Fangs and the Phyrexian negators soon to be their slayers.

Those eldritch horrors of Phyrexia towered over the Black Fang assassins, regarding them as a young child might regard a new toy. They had noticed two things immediately, two fascinating things that in conjunction had been compelling enough to halt their killing spree and divert their attention to this curious band of meat men. These four fleshlings carried the corpse of one of their lesser bretheren, a slain Phyrexian bloodstock. This was not cause for grief or sorrow. Such emotion's were lost upon Yawgmoth's creations. Of more immediate concern to the Phyrexian mind-set was the blood relation they sensed in two of the four fleshlings. The bulky man with the axe and the slim man with sword; they were brothers. If the negators had lips they would have curled into sadistic grins at the thought of it. This would amuse them greatly, and it would please the Overlord. To follow in the footsteps of the great Gix and turn brother against brother...it was a feat worthy of master Xod.

_**These fleshlings that fell bloodstock, they appear to be stronger then the rest of their ilk. Natural deviaitons in design, or something more? **_

One of the negators grabbed Lloyd, the other grabbed Linus. They lifted the brothers up to their mouths and opened wide, revealing a gaping maw lined with needle teeth and oily venom. In place of a tongue the negators sported a pair of scorpion-tail stingers which emerged from their mouth like a pair of insect mandibles. The negator's plunged those stingers into the brother's necks, injecting them with their mind warping poisons. The poison would give the negators psychic control over Lloyd and Linus for a short time.

_**If there is insight to be gained from their design, we will have it. Let the weak feed upon the weak, so we may divine the nature of strength.**_

The negators commanded Linus and Lloyd to fight to the death while they watched, both for the sake of knowledge and for their own amusement. Uhai and Legault were horrified, but could do nothing to intervene in the fratricidal tragedy unfolding before their very eyes. The negators had ripped their tendons to prevent them from moving about during this twisted experiment. They could just as easily have killed them, but for now the negators would rather have them alive and suffering while the brother's tore each other to pieces. There would be time enough to peel the flesh from their bones later. For now it was simply enough that they died a little on the inside every time Lloyd's sword bit into Linus and every time Linus's axe bit into Lloyd. It was enough that they watched through dilated, terror stricken eyes as Phyrexian supremacy turned brother against brother. As the great Gix had turned Urza against Mishra so too did the servants of Xod corrupt the sons of Brendan Reed. It was a fitting display of power. Kinships bonds were strong. Yawgmoth's will was stronger.

And so the brother's fell lock-step into the dance of death, the clash of metal and meddle in which all who live by the sword must inevitably meet their end. Linus was bigger and stronger, and he knew it. He threw his strength into wild, cleaving swings that launched his axe into a wide arc and kept his brother at bay. Lloyd could roll about all he liked. Eventually the nimble swordmaster would slip up, and Linus only needed one clean cut to take his older brother's head off.

Lloyd however was faster and wiser. He easily evaded his younger brother's axe and counterattacked on its backswing, sinking the tip of his blade into Linus's gut not once, not twice, but three times in rapid succession. Linus staggered back as the deep crimson swaths materialized across his stomach. Lloyd pressed the attack, bringing his sword to bear in a powerful upward thrust. Had the attack landed it surely would have been the death of Linus, but the intrepid young hero would not be defeated so easily. Not by any man, least of all by his own brother.

Linus parried his brother's thrust with his mighty axe and slugged the swordmaster while he was still off balance from the guard-impact, bloodying up the entire left side of his face. Linus swung again at Lloyd's throat with his axe, and the older brother barely dodged in time to keep his head on his shoulders. Linus swung once more and this time it was Lloyd who parried. Linus however was not a man to be thrown off balance by the impact of a silver sword, and if Lloyd thought to follow up his parry in the same manner as his brother he had another think coming. Having parried Linus's axe, Lloyd again tried to push his luck with an upward thrust and was instantly punished for it. The attack missed completely and left him open to his brother's back swing, which clipped the bottom of his right ear and took the lower half of his lobe clean off.

Linus circled around his brother, tossed his axe from hand to hand, spun around, and attacked with a horizontal chop. The complex maneuver was meant to defy predictability and confound enemies into an incorrect response, leaving them open to attack. And against anyone else it probably would have worked, but not against Lloyd. He knew that technique like the back of his hand, and he saw right through it. He knew exactly where to position himself to meet the attack; exactly when his brother would be most vulnerable to a counter. Lloyd mirrored his brothers movements, circled and re-circled so as to keep his sword between himself and his brother's axe at all times. He threw himself into Linus's swing right before the part of the maneuver that he knew to be the reverse spin and swung his sword to the left, dodging the axe and cutting a fresh gash in Linus's side as he swept by. Linus staggered again, but did not fall. This fight wasn't over yet, not by a long shot.

"Bleed fleshling," the controlling negator hissed through Lloyd's mouth. "Bleed for your Phyrexian masters."

"By all means. You first, _**brother**__."_

And so the blasphemous battle continued. Linus and Lloyd danced like marionettes to a tune only Yawgmoth could hear, their will not their own, their blades bathed in brother's blood. Legault and Uhai lay broken in the ashes. And the negators laughed a hideous, piping laugh in their alien tongue as they took in the magnificence of the scene and reveled in the rare ecstasy of it all. For this was the one true pleasure afforded to their kind. Pure Phyrexians could not enjoy food or drink; nor could they form kinships or feel love or partake in pleasures of the flesh. In such things the Father of Machines saw inefficiency, and so he conspired to erase these primitive desires from the machine-biology of his children. Nine thousand years of genetic engineering had rendered them physiologically incapable of feeling any pain or pleasure, save one: the sadistic glee derived from the misery of lesser races. Yawgmoth allowed this. He encouraged this. Instinctively from the moment of their birth, every Phyrexian knew how to rejoice in the suffering of flesh beasts because their God rejoiced in the suffering of flesh beasts.

Linus hefted his axe and charged again. Lloyd positioned himself and prepared his response...

* * *

**Next Chapter: Either Linus or Lloyd is going to get killed off before Eliwood and Hector show up to save the day. Who will live and who will die? I have no preference, so why not let you guys vote on it? Send a review and let me know who you think should win the battle of the brothers: Linus or Lloyd. Or should I just work out a scenario where I kill both of them off? That's an option as well. **

**Important distinction: **_**Pure Phyrexian**_**. **

**A pure Phyrexian is a Phyrexian assembled from raw materials in a birthing vat, as opposed to Phyrexians that are born men and later become Phyrexian through the process of **_**completion**_**. Pure Phyrexians, like negators, are hive-minded creatures with no sense of self and no individuality beyond the very limited parameters set by Yawgmoth. **

**Xod is NOT a pure Phyrexian. He was not assembled in a vat on the fourth sphere. He was born human and lived a normal human life before Yawgmoth changed him. **

**New reference: Urza/Mishra**

**I threw that in there because Lloyd/Linus kind of reminds me of Urza/Mishra back when they were just kids wandering around Toscia's camp. I don't expect anyone who hasn't read ****The Brother's War**** to know what this means. No biggy, it's really not even that important. Just something I popped in at the last second on a whim. If you understood the reference give yourself a pat on the back.**


	20. Plan of Attack

**Finally, Chapter 20 is done! Why did it take so long you ask? Well, just when I thought I was going to have a nice leisurely summer of writing FanFics and raiding Gruul's, my parents insisted that I get a job. Apparently I need to develop "life skills," such as the ability to get my lazy ass out of bed before 12:30 in the afternoon and drive myself to a place of business without causing a 10 car pile-up. So far so good. I haven't been fired yet, and I haven't died in a head on collision. The bad news is that this obviously takes away from the time I can spend working on my stories. **

**Speaking of bad news, I still don't own Fire Emblem. If I owned Fire Emblem I wouldn't be schlepping back and forth to a job every day with gasoline at four bucks a gallon 'cause I'd be LOADED for life. Put that in your pipe and smoke it NINTENDO! **

_**

* * *

**_

If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat.

**(Sun Tzu, ****The Art of War)**

**Chapter 20: Plan of Attack **

From Castle Ostia's hallowed halls, Eliwood and Hector observed the progression of events in Caelin. Out of necessity, Mark had given them the power to do so. The planeswalker needed his agents well informed and solidly in control of this situation to make his gambit pay off.

"We've let this go on long enough." Eliwood spoke decisively and stoked the hilt of Durandal. "Too many good people are dead. I say we kill these monsters before they do any more damage."

"No, not yet," said Hector. "Mark needs to see at least one of the brothers dead before we press the attack."

"Since when do you care about following Mark's orders to the letter," Eliwood smirked. "You were always the first one to break his formations and charge ahead of the pack."

"I started following Mark's orders when they started making sense. Like right now, he tells us to let our enemies mess each other up before we make any sudden moves. That makes sense."

"The Black Fang isn't our enemy. They are allies in the war against Phyrexia."

"Allies?" Hector laughed. "That's funny, I seem to remember them bending over backwards for Nergal and trying to kill us off at every turn. Uhai shot me in the ass when we landed on the Dread Isle. Linus tried to axe my face off. And I'm pretty sure I saw Lloyd cut you up at the Shrine of Seals. Great allies Eliwood, with friends like that WHO THE HELL NEEDS ENEMIES?"

"What about the residents of Castle Caelin?"

"What about them?"

"There are still survivors in the rubble," said Eliwood. "If we hurry we can save them."

"Why bother? They're Lundgren's lap-dogs, all of them. They're the same bunch that tried to murder Mark and Lyn before we met up with them. Once a villain always a villain, I say they get what they deserve."

"Hector, that was a life time ago," Eliwood appealed on his old enemy's behalf. "We're three hundred years removed from the world where Sonia took control of the Black Fang and Lundgren plotted the assassination of his brother. Forgive and forget Hector, you can't hold them responsible for crimes they never committed."

"I can and I will. Once a villain always a villain," Hector repeated bitterly. "You're too trusting Eliwood. You see only the good in people, and you're always blind-sided when they betray your. Tell me you've at least considered the possibility that when all is said and done, we're going to wind up fighting another war against the Black Fang."

"You don't honestly believe that the Black Fang will side with the Phyrexian invaders, do you Hector?"

"No. But I believe these imbeciles don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to being manipulated by dark forces. The commander's wife died and one whoring morph later, the entire guild belongs to Nergal. If it's really that easy to corrupt the Black Fang, Phyrexia's sleeper agents are going to have a field day working them over."

"What then, are you going to blacklist every potential ally who fought against us in Old Elibe?" asked Eliwood. "What of Lord Darin, who submitted himself to Ephidel's treachery and plotted rebellion against your brother. Do we now reject Laus from the coalition because of his poor judgment?

"Oh I've thought of it. Believe me, I've thought of it," Hector seethed. "I remember how he betrayed the league, misused his soldiers, and abandoned his son. I remember how he held us up at the Dragon's gate while Nergal drained Ninian's soul and murdered your father. I haven't forgiven him Eliwood. In fact, right now I'd like nothing more than to march on over to Laus myself and plant an axe in his skull."

"Hector! That's…"

"I know, I know." Hector scoffed at his friend's judgment. "…Barbaric. Inappropriate. Unbecoming of a young Lord. Don't worry, I'm not actually going to do it. Duty first. if Mark needs me in Caelin, I'll be in Caelin."

_Good call Hector. Best not to stray from the plan._

They heard him before they saw him. Mark's mind traveled too fast for his thought-projected body to keep pace, so in any given scene his telepathic presence preceded his physical manifestation by several seconds. When he finally did appear, Eliwood and Hector were dumbstruck by the manner in which Mark presented himself. The Mark they remembered was a pale, scrawny little thing wrapped in a tattered green cloak. His frail body had barely been able to lug around a standard issue traveler's pack, let alone swing a sword or cast a spell. The Mark they saw now was muscled like Hawkeye and clothed in the finest spellcaster regalia. In his left hand he held a balled fist full of force; raw mana on hand for whatever use of magic next struck the planeswalker's fancy. In his right hand he held his new weapon of choice, a great golden war-staff of extraordinary power. It vaguely resembled a magical stave with an ornate bayonett attachment; a cresent-blade extension of the main shaft that wrapped around the magical gem at the staff's tip. This gem that empowered Mark's staff was extraordinary in its own right. Just looking at it, Eliwood and Hector knew the stone was not of this world. This was not some ruby or sapphire, dug up from the bowels of the earth like a common rock. This was a powerstone of Thran design, forged in the fires of ancient Halcyon. A magnificent relic stolen from its makers by invading Phyrexians, only to be stolen back millennia later on the whim of a planeswalker.

_Personal vendetta's aside, events in Caelin take precedent over everything else at the moment. However…Hector's assessment of our old enemies is not entirely incorrect._

"I don't understand," Eliwood furrowed his brow in confusion. "If you don't trust the Black Fang to fight by our side, why are you even trying to recruit them?"

_It's not a matter of trust, it's a matter of shifting probabilities. What we know of the Black Fang is that they are not inherently evil, but are nevertheless prone to evil manipulations. We must plan for this. We must bring the Black Fang on board in such a way that they know beyond a shadow of a doubt Phyrexia is their enemy, and thus can never be deceived into siding with the invaders._

"Trust but verify," Hector nodded his understanding. "As usual Mark, you leave nothing to chance. You take action to tip the fortunes of war in our favor."

_Exactly. Good to know someone still understands how I roll. Seems like I've been catching nothing but flack from all sides lately. _

"Honestly, I can see why." Said Eliwood. "You have to admit, this whole plan is kind of shady. Killing off a marquess is serious business. Someone who hasn't known you as long as we have and doesn't know you as well may be inclined to think you have...ulterior motives."

_Yeah tell me about it._ _Listen, I just wanted to wish you luck before you fight those terrible negators. This is the most dangerous mission I've ever sent you on. It also happens too be the most important. _

"We know," said Eliwood

_The fate of the world depends on the outcome of this next battle. Not to sound all melodramatic and shit, that's just the truth of the matter._

"No pressure, right?" asked a sarcastic Hector.

_No pressure. You know what to do, go to Caelin and show these bastards the old bait and switch. Give Xod something to throw his soldiers at then cut loose with the legendary power. _

Mark had said what needed to be said, and did not wish to linger any longer than necessary. He had given his soldiers their orders and wished them luck. Now it was time to get back to business. Mark kept the small talk to a minimum then vanished into thin air as was his custom. He reappeared half a world away at coalition Central Command: Fort Burgundy, Ilia.

* * *

"Back already?" Renault sighed upon Mark's return to Central Command. The planeswalker materialized in front of Renault in the luxurious officer's lounge of Fort Burgundy, where the saint had previously been enjoying an all too rare moment of peace and quiet. No battles. No mind games. Just a soft velvet couch, a glass of fine wine, and a roaring hearth-fire to keep his old bones warm. "I'd have thought you'd be spending more time with Eliwood and Hector. You were so close, and you haven't seen them since…"

…_No time for idle chatter, I've got a war to win. Are my general's assembled?_

"All but Canas. He's still in the underground working on your secret weapon, as per your orders." Renault took a sip of his wine. "Speaking of which, how goes production? I trust Chief Engineer Canas has been keeping pace with his workload?"

_The project proceeds according to schedule. Canas makes good use of Ilia's slow time-zones to perform a year's worth of work in a week's time. As I knew he would, Canas was the perfect man for the job."_

"Good." Renault lifted himself from his most comfortable seat to walk beside Mark, who had decided to make his way from the officer's lounge to the war room on foot. For such short distances the planeswalker still preferred walking over teleportation. It helped him feel more human, a feeling that was getting harder and harder to maintain with each passing day that he remained in his ascended state. "Let's hope all of your selections pan out this well. If your generals turn out to be even half as competent as your scientists, the coalition is in good hands."

_Amen to that. _

Truth be told, Mark wasn't quite sure what to expect from his coalition generals. Pent was supposed to have been his right hand man. Pent, who of all people had been so quick to doubt his leadership and assign the worst possible motivation to his plots. _Who can I trust if not the Mage General of Etruria?_ Mark thought to himself. Would the other commanders be more understanding of the burden he bared, or would they too see him as a scheming, manipulative monster?

He would know soon enough. The door to the war room swung open, and both Mark and Renault walked in to face a round-table of Coalition generals. There was Chief Dayan Silverwolf of the Kutolah, general of the Sacaen outriders. Consisting of 10,000 Lorca and Kutolah archers mounted on horseback, the outriders were a formidable power on an open battlefield. With the superior attack range of their longbows and the mobility of their desert steeds they could strike fast, hit hard, and fall back before most enemies had time to react. And if ever they were forced to fight at close range, most of them also knew how to use daggers and scimitars. When cornered they would trade bow for blade and fight to the last breath.

Next to Dayan sat the swordmaster Karel, a newly appointed coalition general commissioned to lead his insane brethren into battle. They called themselves "Disciples of the Blade." Mark knew precious little of their ways; only that they lived in isolation in the eastern most corner of Sacae and were fanatically loyal to a blade-based religion in which swords were worshipped as idols and the swiftest swordmasters were worshipped as gods. They were few in number, no more than 600 strong, but they were the most naturally gifted warriors in all of Elibe. Karel was the strongest among them, but the rest weren't too far behind. Mark mentally recoiled at the thought of 600 battle-crazed Karel's charging into the fray with a thirst for blood. That would be a sight to strike terror into Phyrexian hearts if there ever was one.

To the right of the Sacaen swordmaster sat one of the few warrior's on Elibe who could possibly be considered more intimidating then Karel, the Bernese wyvern mistress Vaida. Through a strange turn of events, she would be the coalition general in charge of Ilia's pegasus knights. Mark hadn't initially planned on assigning her to the post. Then again, Mark hadn't initially factored in the complete collapse of Ilia's military hierarchy during a three hundred year period of anarchy and destitution. It wasn't until he started hunting for generals that the planeswalker realized there were none to be found in all of Ilia; the spell that had brought back the pegasus could do nothing more. It wasn't going to bring back the squad captain's or the wing commanders, only the rank-and-file soldiers who fought when commanded to fight and retreated when commanded to retreat. Faced with this dilemma, Mark did the only thing he could do. He hired a wyvern mercenary with extensive battlefield experience and a solid record as a troop commander to whip his sky knights in to shape. So far Mark wasn't regretting the decision. Vaida preformed every duty expected of a general, and for that matter she performed them quite well. Moreover, despite her brutal nature, the Pegasus knights loved her. She was everything Ilian culture taught them a woman should be: bold, independent, unafraid to flaunt her strength. Basically, she was the antithesis of the stay-at-home, cook-and-clean house wife that seemed to pervade the gender expectations of every other nation. Vaida in turn seemed to be enjoying her new found popularity among her underlings, all 25,000 of them.

Next up on the round table was a man who looked to be no more than twenty-six years of age, though in truth he was probably older then everyone else in the room put together. His long black hair, dark brown eyes, and tanned bronze skin tone all seemed normal enough for a desert dweller. But for the bony horns that jutted forth from his brow and the rough leathery wings tucked behind his back he could have been mistaken for an ordinary human. He was Ir'Adanos of the Arcadian Draco-Sages: Chief proprietor of the Dragon's Library, keeper of ancient lore, master of elder magic, and now a ranking general in Mark's coalition of nations. Ir'Adanos commanded Arcadia's small but formidable force of 50 dragon warriors and 200 human sages, he himself being an unusual hybrid of the two. In human form he was a dark druid of terrifying power. In dragon form he was 23 metric tons of black-scaled, fire-spouting menace. In both forms, Ir'Adanos was a master necromancer who commanded the dead as effortlessly as he struck down the living. In times of peace he was a quiet, scholarly fellow dedicated to the study of history and magic. But in the heat of battle his inner fire ignited and his dragon bloodlust knew no bounds. Mark would not be asking him or his men to fight in the upcoming battle. He had other plans for the denzins of Arcadia. They would be working with him on yet another project, tangentially related to the work Canas was doing in his slow time laboratories.

Captain Fargus was there too, not as a general per say, but nevertheless as a fearless leader who knew something of rowdy crews and mighty warships. That was good, very good. Canas had need of these skills, and Mark trusted the captain enough to let him aid the shaman-turned-engineer on this, his most vital of projects. While Mark and Ir'Adanos went hunting for the energy source that would power the coalition's secret weapon, Fargus and his men would actually help Canas build the damn thing.

Most important of all were the Etrurian Generals, Pent and Renault. Etrurian forces currently accounted for more than 70 percent of the coalition's roster. Ironically enough, they had Dundor to thank for this. The warlord had disobeyed his Phyrexian masters. They had commanded him to destroy Etruria's military capability, not conquer it. Had Dundor followed Phyrexia's command to the letter, had he taken his raiders and methodically gone about butchering every able bodied soldier in Etruria, there would be no one left to fight under Mark's banner. Fortunately that had not been the case.

What remained of Etruria's diminished but still massive army was divided into two major branches, just as it had always been: the Mage Corp. and the Holy Knights. The Mage Corp. consisted of 35,000 sages, druids, bishops, and valkyries sworn into the service of the state. They answered to Lord Pent, Mage General of Etruria. The Holy Knights consisted of 40,000 generals, paladins, and halberdiers sworn into the service of the Church. They answered to Saint Renault, High Father of Elimine's Flock.

And then there was…wait a minute…who the hell was that? _**She**_ shouldn't be here…

"Lady Iris of House Ilromov, Mage Corp. Lieutenant General," Pent introduced the mystery woman sitting to his right as Mark's withering glare fell upon her. "My second in command. In the event that I should fall in battle, Iris will succeed me as Mage General."

"Why is she here?" Mark huffed irritably. "This is a classified briefing, she doesn't have clearance."

"Pent invited me," Iris said coolly, either oblivious to or uncaring of the planeswalker's growing anger.

"Did he now?" Mark's glare shifted to the Mage General.

"Mark, just drop it." Renault warned, "It's not worth it. please, just drop it…"

"You _insolent_ son-of-a-bitch!" Mark exploded. "I don't know how you roll with your mages, but in my army we have a little something called the CHAIN OF COMMAND! I decide who sits on my war council, you can't just drag in underling flunkies off the battlefield and expect me to…"

"Iris is not my 'underling flunky.' Don't ever make that mistake again planeswalker," Pent met Mark's gaze and deflected his rage in a calm, controlled manner. "She is my equal as a scholar and a sage. You will treat her as such, or I will renounce my standing as a general and take leave of your council this instant."

_Damn him, _Mark thought. Pent had him by the balls and he knew it. If he pressed the argument any further, Pent was just going to press back and make a big scene in front of the entire assembly. He would undermine Mark's authority by making him look like an ill-tempered fool.

"Very well, I suppose I don't have much of a choice then," Mark swallowed his pride and ceded the argument to Pent. "Just this once, I will overlook your insubordination. But for future reference no one, and I mean _no one_, brings unannounced visitors to my briefings. That goes for all of you. Now as for you…"

Mark turned once again to Iris and gave her a closer look. She was a pale, petite woman with sparkling blue eyes and wavy green hair that reached just down to her neck and shoulders. She looked to be in her mid to late 30's and wore deep indigo robes that complimented her features quite well. Now that he was looking at her more closely, Mark felt an element of familiarity. He had seen her before, he was sure of it. He just couldn't pinpoint the memory.

"Do I...know you?"Mark asked uncertainly.

"I don't believe so," Iris responded with a clever grin "But from what Pent tells me, you know my daughter Nino. She was quite fond of you, or so I hear."

"Get the fuck out of here, your Nino's mom?" Mark laughed jovially. "Why didn't you just say so to begin with? If that's the case you're welcome here anytime. Next time bring the whole family."

"I'll consider it," Iris smiled, "provided of course that you don't plan on using that kind of language in front of my little girl. She's much too young for that kind of talk."

"I don't think you need to worry about that Countess, your daughters made of tougher stuff then you'd care to think. Hell, you should have seen her. Blasting off elfires left and right, burning through assassin after assassin like a professional soldier. That's a damn fine mage you've got there."

"What can I say," Iris shrugged. "It runs in the family."

"Enough of this crap!" Vaida barked from across the table. "Less mush, more war talk. Take a stroll down memory lane on your own time!"

_Of course. Dame Vaida is quite right. _

Mark collected his thoughts and shifted to his more formal telepathic speech. With that, the meeting was officially under way.

_Generals, this is your target:_

Mark made a sweeping motion with his hand that left a trail of blue mana suspended in mid-air, a trail that soon thereafter materialized into real-time images of Ostia Plague Hub Alpha. The largest of the images was an outside overview of the plague hub's layout: an intricate series of domes, towers, and ramparts connected by vast networks of wire and pipe. Like the dark race that had built it, the plague hubs appeared to be both living and mechanical. The plague hub's central dome looked as though it had come forth from the spherical bloom of a great black fungus. The giant, gelatinous dome throbbed like a beating heart, circulating freshly filtered streams of glistening oil from building to building through the great metal arteries that were the plague hub's pipelines. Towers and ramparts were constructed from Thran-Phyrexian alloy and grown from insect chitin, blended with nano-machines in such a way that the metal actually grew out of the organic matter. The twisted alien architecture never eroded and never grew weak with age. Failing structures automatically grew new parts to replace the old. Legions of Phyrexian soldiers were currently present at the plague hub. There had to be at least 20,000 visible constructs outside, and god only knew how many more within. To say nothing of the battle-flies and spinal centipedes that were surely present, but impossible to see at the given distance.

_This is your decoy:_

Mark made the same sweeping motion and produced another mana trail, which materialized into images of Linus and Lloyd cutting each other up in the ruins of Castle Caelin while Xod's negators analyzed their performance.

_As I speak, two of my finest agents are moving into position in Caelin. They will kill the negator pair that has been terrorizing Lycia and provoke a military response from Phyrexia. While the enemy is distracted and their forces are divided up, we're gonna hit the Alpha Hub with everything we've got and blow seven shades of shit out of their plague generators. Our primary objective is to neutralize Phyrexia's biological weapons before they flip the kill-switch and infect every corner of Elibe._

"What's to stop them from flipping the kill-switch mid-battle once they realize what we're up to?" Renault inquired.

_Nothing, so we'll have to work fast and push hard. Once we begin our attack we won't be able to fall back or hold position. We must always be advancing on our objective, always pressing the attack and keeping the enemy on the defensive regardless of our tactical standing. The casualties will be enormous, but we must accept that the alternative is infinitely worse. _

"What's our point of attack then?" Pent inquired. "Those walls look pretty sturdy. I don't think we're going to be able to break through with siege weapons or shattering spells."

_Don't worry, I've got it all worked out. I'm going to use a mass teleportation spell to bypass the plague hub's perimeter defenses and deploy our troops inside the enemy citadel. The plan of attack is as follows. Karel's forces will deploy on the Northern ramparts with a vanguard unit of swordmasters and press south to the central dome. That's where Phyrexia keeps their spore pods and plague generators, so that's where we need to press hardest. Pent's mages will deploy behind Karel, providing covering fire and healing for the front lines. Between Pent and Karel's men we'll have the heaviest hitters in the coalition attacking the dome. That will be our offensive strike force. The rest of you will form a defensive line at the foot of the citadel: Renault's armored knights in front, Dayan's mounted archers in back. Vaida's unit will guard against any aerial attack Phyrexia throws our way and aid as needed in the ground war. Defenders, your job is to prevent all Phyrexian forces outside the dome from reaching Pent and Karel. Hold the lines in the clearing between these four towers while our assault force neutralizes the plague generators. Pent's valkyries will provide you with healing. I'll be deploying them separate from the rest of the mage corps. _

"Just as well milord," Iris whispered to Pent. "Those ramparts are too narrow for mounted units to maneuver. We weren't going to get any use out of them anyway." Pent nodded in agreement.

_We begin our assault as soon as Xod's response team crosses into Caelin, which should be happening very soon if Eliwood and Hector get the job done. According to my best estimates we have 48 hours tops to make our move. Your armies are fully assembled. My magic is ready. Take two days time to relax and unwind, then get ready to hit the ground running. This is only going to be the first of many long, bloody battles in the Elibe-Phyrexian War. _

* * *

**COMING UP IN FUTURE CHAPTERS: The reviews are in and the people have spoken. Linus has to die. Oh well, sucks to be him. With that, the stage is set for Eliwood and Hector to kick some major ass in Chapter 21. **

**Mark follows in Urza's footsteps and goes hunting for the most powerful artifacts in the Fire Emblem universe. From these relics, Canas will assemble the ultimate weapon. **

**And all the while, the coalition marches to war on the enemy's home turf. What unspeakable horrors await our intrepid heroes in Ostia Plague Hub Alpha? **

**All this and more up-and-coming in future installments of ****Planar Chaos on Elibe****. I pretty much know what I want to do for at least the next four chapters. Now it's just a matter of finding the time to do it. **


	21. Legendary Power

**Contrary to popular belief, this story is not dead. It just takes a freakishly long time to update. You'll be the final judge of whether or not it was worth the wait. I still don't own Fire Emblem or MTG.**

You will be shown,

How I've become indestructible.

Determination that is incorruptible.

From the other side a terror to behold.

Annihilation will be unavoidable.

Every broken enemy will know,

That their opponent had to be invincible.

Take one last look around while you're alive.

I'm an indestructible master of war.

**"INDESTRUCTIBLE," by Disturbed**

* * *

**Chapter 21: Legendary Power**

Lloyd blocked another swipe from Linus's axe with the side of his blade, causing their weapons to lock. The swordmaster pushed hard to shrug off his brother's blow, but Linus pushed back with his full strength and sent the smaller man flying.

_**Trial concluded. Specimens exhibit normal human physiology under physical and mental duress…**_

Having muscled his way out of a direct stand-off, Linus resumed his relentless assault and took another swing at Lloyd. This time the hero landed a clean blow that took a chunk out of his brother's shoulder. But not before, Lloyd brought his sword up in a forward thrust that bit through Linus's ribs.

_**Deviations in performance are derived from life experience and are not symptomatic of a superior build. Fleshling design has not evolved and is still of inferior construction. Compressing data for further analysis by Overlord Xod…**_

They should have been dead by now. Both their bodies had bled out ten times over. It was a miracle that the brothers still had strength enough to draw breath, let alone swing a blade. An unholy miracle contrived not by the benevolence of God, but rather by the science of Yawgmoth.

_**Terminating control protocols...mind-poison receding…regeneration aura dissipating…**_

The negators had given the Reed brothers regenerative abilities to prolong their battle, thus allowing Phyrexia to collect additional data. But now their experiment was complete, and their death-defying magic was no more. With vast quantities of blood already lost, neither Linus nor Lloyd would survive another hit. The next blow would be the last. Pure speed would win the day.

Lloyd was faster. His blade struck first. His blade struck true. One decisive stroke and the deed was done; the Rabid Hound of the Four Fangs fell never to rise again.

Now with the last of the negators poisons receding Lloyd returned to his senses and saw what his hand had wrought. With full clarity he saw his brother dying at his feet while a steady stream of warm blood trickled accusingly down the pommel of his Silver Sword. He knew then what he had done and he hated himself for it.

"Ughhhh…bad way to go out…" Linus's eyes glazed over, and his face paled visibly as the cold specter of death descended upon him. "You…you were stronger Lloyd. You've always…been…stronger."

"Don't talk like that Linus, you're gonna pull through just like you always do." Even as he spoke them the words rang hollow.

"Not this time Lloyd…not this time." Linus groaned with his dying breath. "Look at the spot we're in. You told us…told us all along…it had to be a trap. We didn't listen…" Linus coughed violently and spit up a thick glob of blood. "…We didn't listen…"

"LINUS!" This couldn't be happening, Lloyd couldn't be in Caelin, surrounded by monsters, watching his brother bleed to death. This wasn't real, couldn't be real. This had to be some kind of nightmare; the mad ramblings of a fevered mind.

"Heh…we …had a good…run. See you on the…other...side…brother…" With those final words on his lips, Linus Reed died in his brothers arms.

At that moment Lloyd was almost grateful for the imminent death the negators would surely offer; for he was certain now that as long as he lived he would never again be at peace. He had killed his own brother. Linus was dead by his hand.

And still the negators indulged in his torment—the throbbing of his wounds, the sorrow of his loss, the shame of his betrayal, the hatred of his enemies—drinking it all in with great, glutinous gulps. Like psychic vampires they feasted, gorging themselves not on blood but on the emotional suffering of their prey. How glorious it was to revel in the misery of flesh-beasts. And yet at the end, they were left unsatisfied. It was a subtle thing really, one missing dish from the banquet of Lloyd's torments. A lesser construct wouldn't have even noticed it. It was the absence of anything even remotely resembling fear. Every human they had encountered thus far recoiled from them in terror. This one did not. With the death of his brother, Lloyd had lost everything. No longer did he fear for his own life. He cared not that he stood at death's door; the White Wolf was not afraid to die.

But Lloyd would live to fight another day, for a higher power was on his side…

* * *

"_Echo to base, Echo to base._" Eliwood called out through his newly acquired thoughtweft aura, one of many powerful enchantments now bound to his legendary blade courtesy of Mark. _"Black One is down; requesting permission to engage the enemy."_

"_Granted, standby for teleportation," _Mark signaled back. "_Godspeed Echo_."

"This is it Hector," Eliwood brandished Durandal and kindled its sacred flame. "You ready?"

"I was born ready," Hector scoffed. "Come on, let's kick some ass!"

* * *

Lloyd closed his eyes and prepared to embrace oblivion as the negator standing before him discharged a killing shot. He had always expected death to be something like a dreamless slumber. Strange, how he felt absolutely nothing different after the cannon discharged and the shot fired. He could still smell the bodies burning, still taste the acrid smoke in the air, still hear the crackling fires, and still feel the pain of his wounds. He wasn't dead, he was sure of it. But how could he possibly still be alive?

Then came that horrid alien screech, followed by the familiar sound of metal clashing against metal. And all at once Lloyd understood. That final, lethal shot had not been meant for him. There was another who challenged the supremacy of Phyrexia.

* * *

Eliwood reflected a death-pulse with a swing of his enchanted weapon, sending life snuffing waves of black mana back at his Phyrexian foe. The negator had turned to face its newest challenger and fired off its payload with such blinding speed, Eliwood fighting by his own means would have been killed instantly. Of course, the Knight Lord was never truly alone with Durandal in hand. He had the advantage of a sentient, spirit-imbued blade that could anticipate enemy attacks and respond in kind with split-second timing. That helped immensely.

The reflected death-pulse struck its caster head-on, eliciting a near deafening screech. Crippled by its own magic, the offending negator offered considerably less resistance. The black horror moved much slower with death seeping into every pore of its bio-mechanical joints; slow enough that Eliwood could actually follow its movements with the naked eye. More importantly, the spell had taken an irreparable toll on the negator's regenerative nodes. No longer did Eliwood have to worry about the construct repairing itself faster than he could harm it. It was a simple damage race now; one Eliwood was confident he could win with his spirit guide and his legendary power. Eliwood chanted a prayer of knight's valor, calling Durandal's sacred fire to his aid. The opposing negator snarled and clicked its mandibles, spraying acid and venom that could not be so easily countered. The negator charged first, lashing out at Eliwood with its envenomed claws. It pushed its advantage in size and strength, keeping Eliwood on guard with the occasional gutter-stomp, debris toss, and full-body tackle. Eliwood for his part fought conservatively, using Durandal's fire for defensive cover and striking when he was sure he had an opportunity. Durandal did such tremendous damage that Eliwood could afford to play it safe; no need to take stupid risks in a one-on-one fight. The battle was long and fierce, and only after ten full minutes of intense combat was Eliwood able to vanquish his foe. His victory was one of cautious attrition, slowly wearing down the negators systems as the death pulse worked its grizzly magic.

The battle wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. Hector was having a much harder time fighting his opponent, a negator operating at full power. Having learned from the folly of its partner, the surviving negator withheld the use of magic and never once presented the Great Lord of Ostia a chance to cast a reflecting swing. Moving at top speed and regenerating at peak efficiency, this one wasn't going down without a fight.

One on one, Hector was clearly outmatched. In full armor he couldn't move fast enough to keep pace with his foes assault, not even with the aid of Durban's spirit. Further complicating the matter, Hector's armor wasn't actually offering any real protection against the negator's attacks. The end result: Hector was getting hit, a lot, and he was feeling the pain after each blow.

"Damn it," Hector took a reckless swing with his axe that didn't even come close to making contact. The negator was running rings around him, raking him from every side. "Stop moving so I can kill you!"

Hector took another swing and once again missed completely. His efforts were rewarded with the decidedly unpleasant sensation of four giant razors being dragged across his back. Hector spun around just in time to sink Armads into his attacker's chest and discharged streaming thunder into the open wound. This was it; the opening he needed. Hector lodged his axe deeper into his foe, tightened his grip, and willed the thunderous bombardment to continue. He had no intention of letting this battle drag on. This needed to end now.

The negator however had other plans. With Armads still lodged in its chest and Hector still clinging to the pommel, the colossal war machine leapt seven meters straight up into the air and crashed through the remains of Castle Caelin's second floor. Hector was dragged along for the ride, the defensive aura of Armads providing only partial protection against the high-velocity impact of brick and mortar. The negator crash-landed in the quarters above the throne room and emerged from the rubble unscratched, its regenerative mechanisms already at work mending the wound inflicted by Hector. Within seconds it was fully healed and once again fighting at peak efficiency.

"That's fair," Hector muttered as he once again found himself on the defensive against an undamaged enemy, his armor trashed and his body aching all over. How the hell was he supposed to kill something that could move faster than sound and heal any wound in a matter of seconds?

Hector continued to fight a losing battle, his own condition worsening with each passing moment while the negator showed no noticeable signs of damage or fatigue. Five minutes into the fight he finally realized that his heavy, cumbersome armor was more hindrance than help. With that, Hector knew what he had to do in order to win. He knew, and he didn't like it, but the metal talons clawing inches away from his face served as a constant reminder that he didn't have much of a choice.

There was no time for hesitation. Casting all doubts aside Hector stripped of the tattered remains of his armor and resolved to finish the fight without its protection, naked from the waist up.

_Very good young warlord_, the berserker spirit imbued within his weapon applauded the effort. _Know your power. Berserkers fight with their axe and their muscle. Cowards hide behind suits of steel. _Hector paid heed to the call of the dragonslayer. Durban spoke to him as only his patron spirit could. He dulled his pain, kindled his rage; assured him that he had made the right choice.

The negator looked upon Hector's unarmored form and laughed at the weakness of his flesh. T'was a fatal flaw that the soulless construct could not see the strength of his spirit. Falsely convinced that his battered, unarmored enemy was now defenseless and near-death, the negator bent its fingers like meat-hooks and flourished its scythe-length talons. What followed was a paralyzing screech, an acid spray, and several blindingly fast ripping motions.

Hector parried every strike effortlessly. His ears bled, but his senses remained intact. His skin sizzled beneath a barrage of chemical attacks, but he felt no pain. Durban was with him, and while the berserker's spirit suffused Hector's corporal form he was nigh invincible. He could not be controlled or intimidated. He could not be terrified or stunned. Only death could silence the thunderous judgment of his axe.

**I am power. Power without peer.**

Hector marveled at how easily he could now swing his weapon. Even his most massive of axes felt as light as a rapier without the heavy encumbrance of gauntlets, pauldrons, and everything in between. The negator swung again and again, but always the result was the same. Hector had control of the fight now. With a sentient weapon and a full range of motion, Hector could consistently parry the negator's swipes and launch effective counterattacks. He landed blow after savage blow against his hated enemy. He sunk his axe into any exposed part he could find on the creature. He busted its kneecaps and smashed its skull, cleaved its palate and severed its spine.

**I am the Dragon-hunter. I am the flesh-biter, the bone-crusher, the skull-breaker, the doom-bringer**.

Still it was never enough. The negator always regenerated before Hector could land a killing blow. At this point Hector wasn't even sure what could constitute a killing blow. With his own eyes he had seen the horror's head split open and its oily contents seep forth. With his own hands he had embedded Armads in the creature's brains; electrocuted it to hell and back. And still the negator lived. What more did he have to do to kill this thing? Hector didn't know, and oddly enough he didn't care. So great was the thrill of battle, so passionate was the revelry of his berserker spirit, he cared not how long it took to take his quarry down. Durban wanted…no…Hector wanted this fight to last forever. This is what he lived for; to be tested in the grueling crucible of combat, to prove himself against the mightiest of foes.

**I have no need of this idleness called peace. Power unused is power wasted. Better to lie spent in the grave than to sit in wait.**

He was unstoppable. Hector felt the pulse of a world at war, felt it as he might feel the throbbing flow of blood beneath his own muscles. Blood, glorious blood, the herald of countless victories from Durban's first campaign of the scouring to Hector's last match point in the arena. Oh, how his axe thirsted for the blood of his enemies. But this foe…this negator…it did not bleed. Only oil and industrial waste spilled forth from its wounds. The thought of it enraged the berserker. How was he to claim rites of first blood off this oily corpse, was he to anoint himself in sludge? No! He need not sully himself with Phyrexian filth! The berserker would not be denied his flawless victory, but how? Unto what higher power does the berserker appeal when he himself does not hold the answer in his axe?

"Hold on Hector!" Eliwood called out from the floor below. "I've got your answer right here!" The great lord of Ostia risked a glance over the throne-room balustrade and couldn't help but grin at the sight that greeted him. Eliwood had somehow managed to detach his slain negator's arm-cannon, and was now wielding the large instrument in the manner that a modern soldier might wield a shoulder-fired missile. The cannon projected a bright red tracer onto the surviving negator's brow, indicating that Eliwood had he creature dead in his sights. The Phyrexian's machine brain registered the new threat, but maintained its offensive focus against Hector.

"Don't even think about pointing that thing in my direction," Hector only half-joked as he batted aside another attack with Armads. "You're not a marksman, you're a knight."

"And you're not a berserker, you're a tank," Eliwood retorted as his Phyrexian weapon shook violently and glowed with ominous, ruby-red motes of power. "Now get the hell out of my line of sight."

"If you graze me I'll pummel you..."

"If I graze you you'll be dead. Now MOVE!"

Hector didn't need to be told a second time. Immediately after receiving Eliwood's warning he threw himself into a duck-and-cover position, just in time for the contents of four red-mana batteries to pass safely over his head. The crimson beam hit the negator square in the chest, instantly annihilating the Phyrexian assassin. The raw power of the shot completely vaporized the negator's exoskeleton and reduced its internal structures to molten slag. Nothing even remotely resembling a living creature was left behind. Eliwood for his part was blasted back a few feet from the cannon's recoil, but was otherwise unharmed. Hector sustained minor burns on his already cut up back just from his proximity to the searing rays.

"Two for two!" Eliwood whooped. "I'm on fire!"

"You're awfully happy all of a sudden," Hector smirked. "What gives, I thought you hated fighting."

"Roland's helping me build up a tolerance," Eliwood admitted. "Don't tell me you weren't getting the same urges from Durban, I saw you up there. You were completely out of control."

"Was I really that bad?"

"I don't know, but you looked like you were in one of those berserker rages where you can't think straight and just attack anything that moves."

"Huh…didn't even notice."

"You better be extra careful," Eliwood warned. "One of these days that rage is going to go off at the wrong time, and it's not going to be pretty. God help the poor son-of-a-bitch who gets in your way when Durban decides he wants to smash some skulls."

"I'll worry about that when it actually happens," Hector brushed Eliwood's concerns aside. "If it ever actually happens, and I'm not saying it will. I'm in control at all times. Durban is just tagging along for the ride."

"Good. Because we still have a mission to complete, and I can't have my best friend going psycho on me halfway through."

"Of course, the mission…" Hector rolled his eyes "We're actually going to make nice with the Black Fang now, aren't we? This has to be my least favorite part of the job…?"

"So you'd rather bleed and burn then sit down and talk with your enemies." Eliwood smirked "Only you Hector. Only you could say that with a straight face."

"I don't think you understand how incredibly awkward this is going to be," Hector sighed. "Lloyd just lost his brother. He's in mourning; you really think he wants to hear our bullshit?"

"He'll want vengeance for Linus, vengeance against Phyrexia," Eliwood reasoned. "That's all the common ground we need to make this work."

"That could just as easily work against us Eliwood," Hector scowled. "Mark bears as much responsibility for Linus's death as any Phyrexian. If Lloyd ever learned the truth of his involvement, he'd turn against us in a heartbeat. He'd probably try to kill Mark"

"It will never come to that," Eliwood assured him. "And even if it does I don't think Lloyd could even hurt Mark, let alone kill him."

If only Hector knew how right he was. But how could he? Neither he nor Eliwood could have possibly known that at that very moment, Lord Pent had his eye on Lloyd and was entering the same notion…

* * *

Xod strode purposefully across the frozen wastes and boundless horizons of boreal Kadath; the great white north of Elibe's Dragon Realm. Even at 80 degrees below zero his machine-biology functioned perfectly, a testament to the strength and versatility of his build. Yawgmoth had designed him well.

A mighty wind blew against the Phyrexian overlord, chilling the air and whipping up a blinding veil of powdered snow from the freshly dusted plains. Xod trudged onward, heedless of the coming storm. He would not be turned back by a mere blizzard, not with his quarry this close.

His target was a spiritual leader among the ice dragons, an oracle. Xod knew her to be a practitioner of strange and ancient magics; potent arts that imbued her dragon-kin with extraordinary power. She was powerful in her own right too. Hellishly strong even by Phyrexian standards, she had outmatched his dragon engines and negators on more than one occasion. Lesser constructs couldn't even touch her.

Every other nation in the Dragon Realm had fallen and yet frozen Kadath still eluded him. All because of that damn oracle and her enhancement magic. Wherever she appeared, dragons fought beyond the limitations of flesh and beat back Phyrexia's bionic armies. Xod hunted her relentlessly, but always he was one step behind the icy she-devil. These blue aligned dragons were clever and discrete, nothing like the fiery reds he had first defeated to gain a foothold in this world. They struck not with burning fury but with cold, calculating intent. They knew when they were outmatched and always retreated accordingly, never leaving behind a single dragon corpse for the vat priests to harvest.

Counterattacks on Kadath were futile, seeing as how none of his constructs had the resilience to fight in the extreme cold of the ice dragon's homeland. The lower limit of their functional range had been set for the icy peaks of Keld, the coldest battlefront on Dominaria.

So Xod did what he did best. With the power vested in him by his blessed Lord Yawgmoth he struck out on his own, without any of his feeble and incompetent minions to slow him down. He ventured off in search of the Ice Dragons and their Oracle, so he could finally kill her and put an end to the northern resistance.

Already his mind was awash in visions of fire. The ice dragons were doomed. He would lay waste to their nation with a hellstorm of swamp magic: death clouds and plague winds, bone splinters and flesh inversions, waking nightmares and stalking shadows, and legions upon legions of the restless dead. The Oracle would fall before him. He would slay her and compel her to rise once more, so that in cruel undeath she might bow before him and know blessed Lord Yawgmoth as her one true master…

Then reality hit Xod like a sledgehammer. The psychic link that bound all constructs on Elibe to the will of the overlord flared with searing pain, and Xod was made aware of his defeat in Caelin.

The overlord cursed in ancient Thran. Why now? Why the sudden surge of opposition, in Caelin of all places!? The ice dragons of Kadath were one thing. Their's was an understandable threat; dragons in general were powerful and dangerous creatures. But a successful uprising in Lycia spurred on by humans_—_frail, fleshy, unaugmented, _humans—_there was no explanation for it.

Something had to be done about this latest incident in Caelin; the slaying of two negators could not go unanswered. Xod pondered his options. He could call off the dragon hunt and tend to the matter personally. That would put an end to any and all shenanigans in Lycia, but with the Oracle on the loose Xod knew better than to take leave of the Dragon Realm for any appreciable amount of time. First and foremost his presence was required in Kadath. Lycia was better left to the management of the plague lords.

If Xod couldn't smother the Caelin uprising with his own power he'd do the second best thing. He'd send an army in his stead. Xod recalled that House Caelin's territory was very close to Ostia Plague Hub Alpha, the largest research facility and distribution center in Lycia. Phyrexia had a standing army of 22,000 constructs stationed around just that one hub, with more troops emerging from the birthing vats each and every day. That was more than enough to initiate a full invasion of plague ravaged Caelin.

Before resuming his hunting expedition, Xod paused briefly to relay a series of psychic commands back to his plague lords in Ostia. Minions a world away received their orders loud and clear:

_**Your overlord hath commanded a full invasion of Caelin, with no fewer than 4,000 Phyrexian soldiers deployed from the vicinity of Ostia Plague Hub Alpha. Thy army shall include assorted units of Shock Troopers, Scuta, Bloodstock, Reapers, Slayers, Defilers, and Gargantuans. Thou shall deploy thy forces immediately by means of ambulatory teleportation to the last confirmed location of negator activity. Threat assessment: very high. Expect heavy losses. Keep reclaimer units on standby for multiple salvage runs. Go forth and execute my will.**_

And so the plague lords scrambled to do their masters bidding. From the standing forces of Ostia Plague Hub Alpha they assembled an army to invade Caelin.

Exactly as Mark had planned…almost. One crucial detail was off, something not even the tactical genius himself had anticipated.

* * *

Eliwood's distress signal reached Coalition Central Command at O-800, military time. At such an early hour, the urgency of the call came as a shock to every general in the war room. No one had expected Phyrexia to respond so quickly. Mark certainly hadn't. Solemnly, they took in Eliwood's account of the rapidly changing situation on the ground.

"_Echo to base. Castle Caelin is overrun. They fell from holes in the sky, hundreds of them. More keep coming, there's no end in sight."_

"Ambulators," Mark realized his folly immediately and cursed his most basic of oversights. He should have seen this one coming. "They used ambulators to open portals directly over Caelin. How the fuck did I miss that?"

The distress signal continued.

"_We've lured them down to the catacombs beneath the castle dungeon. Lloyd and Legault are with us. We carried them down. Uhai didn't make it. We were unable to retrieve either his or Linus's body. They're meat for the Phyrexians now." _

That last statement sent a shiver through everyone except Karel and Vaida. By now it was well known what Phyrexians did to corpses. They treated human flesh as a commodity no different than gold or lumber; just another resource to be harvested en masse.

"_We'll fair better down in these narrow passages, but we won't be able to hold them off forever. We need reinforcements. Requesting permission to break the Seal of the Guardian."_

"Permission granted," Mark spoke both out loud and through the thoughtweft so that the entire room heard him as well as Eliwood. "I hadn't planned on breaking the seal this early, but if that's what it takes to hold the line, make it happen. Give em hell Echo."

* * *

"We're clear Hector," Eliwood took his place besides the berserker on the soon-to-be battlefield. They were an army of two, about to become an army of many, many more. "Mark gave us the thumbs-up to break the seal."

"Really?" Hector hefted his axe and gazed upward at the spiraling rock formation that connected the dungeons above to the caverns below. Already Phyrexian horrors were streaming down in their devilish hordes, ready to rend flesh for the Overlord. "How'd you get him to cave? Doesn't that mess up his plan to reinforce Ilia?"

"Mark's plan went out the window when the enemy arrived before we had a chance to gather reinforcements." Eliwood reached for his sword and matched Hector's gaze. "Now it's just us and the guardians."

"Well then, this should be fun." Hector grinned. "You ready Eliwood?"

"I was born ready," Eliwood scoffed. "Come on, let's kick some ass!"

With that, Eliwood and Hector crossed blades and spoke a single word of command. Durandal and Armads met in a symphony of thunder and flame. Sparks danced like fire. Embers crackled like thunder. Magics intermingled so that with one majestic evocation, the Seal of the Guardian was consumed to bring forth the vast spirit armies who hold vigil over the tombs of the eight legends. Empowered by the strength of Durban and compelled by the valor of Roland, the ghost army mobilized to meet the Phyrexians in battle.

Soldiers of every stripe rose once more in the defense of their homeland: archers and mages, myrmidons and mercenaries, knights and fighters. Chief among them, the phantom-berserker Georg and the phantom-hero Kaim stormed the front lines with their tomahawks held high and killed many a Phyrexian. Eliwood and Hector fought amongst their spectral war-host, cutting vast swathes through the enemy lines and eventually pushing them out of the catacombs, taking the fight back to the dungeons.

The first great battle of the Elibe-Phyrexian War had begun.

* * *

**There she is, another stunning creation by yours truely. I'll have you know that finishing this chapter took priority over a 13 page paper that's due right after thanksgiving, which I haven't even started yet and thus will now have to write over Thanksgiving break. **

**R&R to tell me it was totally worth it or call me a complete and total dumb-ass.**


	22. Battlefield Ostia

**Chapter 22 is finally here. Before we get to that though, here's some MTG news: I've been tinkering with some new deck ideas now that Alara block has been released. The one that's showing the most progress is ****Esper Aggro**** (ZOMG, it's a blue deck that doesn't want to play control. Blasphemy!) The deck list is in my profile. Anyone who actually knows how to play this game: take a look at it and if you think you can make it better, tell me how. **

**Still don't own Fire Emblem. Bummer…**

"They looked even more like giant spiders as they approached. Inhuman skulls, sagittal crests, horns, fangs, cords of gray muscle—yes, these were monsters not men.

The Phyrexians breached the garrison's outpost. They did not fight with swords. They needed no weapons. They were the weapons."

(Magic the Gathering: The Thran)

**Chapter 22: Battlefield Ostia**

In the skies above Ostia Plague Hub Alpha a magically concealed planeswalker hovered in contemplative silence; his eyes shut tight, his thoughts turned inward to visions of fallen comrades and strategic blunders from an altered past. Beneath him Phyrexians scurried like ants, hideous and hulking in their composite-chitin armor. Mark had pledged himself to their annihilation, yet even now at this latest of hours doubt stayed his hand.

The enormity of what Mark was about to do was not lost upon him, and it gave the planeswalker cause to hesitate. His last attempt to orchestrate a world-saving battle had ended in disaster. Now his enemies were stronger, their armies larger, the battlefield variables infinitely more complex, and to top it all off the stakes couldn't be higher.

Yet Mark too was more than he had ever been. His planeswalker spark made him nothing less than a god among men. An awkward and inexperienced god who frequently butted heads with his followers, but a god nonetheless. Experience was becoming less of a problem with each passing day; Mark's understanding and control of his powers had grown immensely since the moment of his ascension, and while Xod still outclassed him with his complete mastery of black mana the planeswalker's talents continued to expand in leaps and bounds.

Xod…the devil and the enemy around which Mark had to work his entire plans for the defense of Elibe. There was no way around it: if Xod showed up at this battle, the coalition forces were as good as dead. Mark couldn't stop him. No one could. The planeswalker's entire strategy hinged on Xod being away from the plague hub during the coalition offensive, and from a tactical standpoint that was most worrisome. There was only so much Mark could do to keep the Overlord away. Conceivably, he could erect a slow-time barrier around the plague hub and lag the transfer of psychic data to…wherever the hell Xod was. He was somewhere on the other side of the Dragon's Gate, that was all the planeswalker knew. Ir'Adanos would have more information when he returned from his parlay with the Dragon Nations, or whatever was left of them after Xod laid waste to their kingdoms.

Mark ran the calculations through his mind for the umpteenth time. His most potent variant of the stasis ward would give the coalition approximately 3 hours to hammer away at the plague generators before Xod caught wind of the attack and ambulated back to base. Still, even that wasn't a perfect solution. If at any point during the attack Xod returned to the plague hub by his own volition, the defenders of the world were fucked.

_We need to move out ASAP; every second we wait increases the probability of an encounter with Xod._ Mark beamed his thoughts out to his generals. _My powers are ready._ _Who are we still waiting on?_

_No one on this end, my outriders are fully assembled._ Mark perceived the thoughts of Chief Dayan in distant Sacae and translated it into cohesive language with his psychic talents. A_rmed all of them with Canas's exploding arrows, so they'll do more than just ping against heavy armor. _

_My disciples await the bloodletting,_ Karel's thoughts called out. _Direct our blades to the enemy stronghold, and we will carve fear into their ranks. _

_Mage Corp, ready to move,_ Pent responded simply. _Toss us a portal and we'll start the fireworks._

_Defenders lined up at the Grand Cathedral, _Renault reported in. _All units are in formation. We're good to go. _

_Fiora's wing hasn't reported in yet. _Vaida's thoughts came in noticeably more irritate than those of her fellow generals. _Farina's shouting like a madwoman, and the little one won't stop crying. The rest of Ilia's knights are mobile._

_What the…Fiora's the one holding us up?_ Mark's irritation turned to distress with this news; diligent Fiora was never tardy. Something terrible must have befallen the sky-knight to keep her from her post. A psychic sweep of the continent confirmed the planeswalker's suspicions, turning distress into full blown panic. Fiora was completely beyond the range of his telepathy; her mind wasn't active in any detectable capacity. Most likely, that meant Fiora was dead. If she was still alive her mind had to be completely shut down, practically comatose, to escape Mark's telepathic surveillance. The fact that her entire unit was missing made matters worse. It meant that whatever had incapacitated Fiora probably got them as well. _When was she last seen? _Mark demanded. _What was her squad's last confirmed location? What were they doing at the time?_

_Yesterday morning, they flew off to Ardigon for a standard training exercise. No one's seen or heard from them since._ Vaida reported. _We launched a search party later that day, didn't find a thing. No bodies. No supplies. No ground tracks. Whatever happened to them, it happened in midair and it didn't leave any mess behind._

…_Most Unfortunate. Fiora's loss could not have come at a worse time. _The compassionate commander in Mark feared for the life of a good friend, even as the cold calculating tactician reminded him that far greater losses were to be expected in the upcoming battle, and the loss of a single wing of Pegasus-knights meant nothing in the long run._ Unfortunate, but completely irrelevant from a tactical standpoint. Suspend all search and rescue operations; the offensive continues as planned. _

Still hovering motionless above the plague hub, Mark readjusted his battle calculations to account for his slightly reduced air support. The planeswalker concluded that the loss of one wing had no significant impact on the rate at which his strike force could reasonably be expected to push forward, and no impact at all on the output of damage his defenders could reasonably be expected to soak up. No alterations were made to account for the loss of Fiora's unit, a decision Mark would soon come to realize as a miscalculation on his part. In his haste to initiate battle before Xod returned to the plague hub, Mark had overlooked two pressing question of strategic importance.

What aerial force routes an entire unit of Pegasus knights without raising so much as a blip on the radar of a scouting party?

And more importantly, what impact does such a force have on a battlefield?

* * *

Fiora lay sprawled and disheveled in the brig of a Phyrexian warship, collapsed unconscious from the vast quantities of sedative drugs pumped into her blood. Her cell was little more than a grimy cavity between the ship's engine room and onboard laboratories, where heat from the exhaust fans below and seepage from the medical waste above conspired to make life most unpleasant. The remainder of her squad lay imprisoned in similar circumstances. Some had already been removed from their cells and given over to the Plague Lords for medical testing. Those deemed unfit for experimentation had been packed into holding pens, soon to be the property of vat priests in need of fresh corpses for their sinister science.

The pegasi of course had been the first to go; their remains only now cleared the dissecting tables in messy meat piles. The Plague Lords made it their business to learn how this irritating white-mana species, presumed dead for 300 years, had survived extinction in spite of their perfectly engineered epidemic.

In restless slumber Fiora thrashed about, her mind besieged by a now familiar series of recurring dreams. Dreams so vivid, so familiar, they could only be drawn from some long-repressed memory.

Wonderful Dreams…

A knight of Caelin wraps her in his embrace and presses his lips to her own. His hair is red. His arms are strong. Unto this man she has given herself, body and soul. With her knight she is confident. With her knight she is happy. Why she can not say, but she knows this dream-man will never hurt her. She knows she can trust him for all time.

Terrible Dreams…

An isle of gloom and malaise, where brave men dare not tread. A simple mission gone terribly wrong. Archers in the mist, a deadly ambush. Fallen comrades. Dead friends. She takes full responsibility for the losses. The weight of her failure. The pain of her loss. It crushes her heart. Her sister's praise can not sooth her. Lord Pent's charity does nothing to dry her tears. In her hour of grief she believes she will never again know happiness. Only her knight can comfort her.

Glorious dreams…

She flashes across the battlefield on her Pegasus, bringing her steel to bear against many a black-garbed villain. Their hair is jet black, their skin a pasty white. Their eyes gleam golden with supernatural power. These foes are not human; there is no guilt to be had in killing them. Fiora strikes them down mercilessly, her lance arm in perfect form. The red-haired knight rides by her side. His sword rises and falls in a clean arch, and a pair of golden eyes goes lifeless. He smiles. She smiles back. She is a lowly mercenary, he a knight commander in good standing with the League of Lords. Yet here they are equals. Here they are lovers. Here they are partners in all things. She turns to him and presses her lips to his ears. Softly, discretely, she whispers "I love you."

A dream differed…

Her knight turns on her, seizes her violently, and commands her to wake up. She is confused. Why is he doing this? This should not be happening, her knight would never hurt her.

"I SAID WAKE UP!"

* * *

A mighty blow struck Fiora, shocking her senses back into being. All at once she was awake, lucid, and cognizant of her surroundings. She was not in the loving arms of her knight in shining armor. She was in another life, another world, imprisoned in a mobile dungeon by horrors never before known to the human nations of Elibe. She was imprisoned and she wasn't alone; in a cellblock otherwise devoid of non-captive life, a single menacing figure towered over Fiora's still collapsed form.

He was human. Or at least he had been once. Now he was a servant of Phyrexia—half man, half machine—sent forth with the confidence of the dark overlords to do Yawgmoth's bidding. The man had an ancient air about him, a stale scent and a prickly aura suggesting many long centuries of elder mastery. The years had wrinkled his skin and grayed what remained of his hairs, now intermittingly dispersed among the wires and quills that grew out of his altered follicles. His skin shriveled, yet his chest still bulged like the torso of a bull, packed with enough muscles to grab a wyvern by the horns and rip its head off in one clean motion.

He covered himself with what appeared to be a druid's robe spun of metal filigree, chromatically coated to mimic the effects of maroon and indigo dyes in textile clothing. His face was a composite of terror: part man, part Phyrexian, pure evil. Where in centuries past Archsage Athos set his hand against the ancient evil and left permanent scarring on the left side of his face, the vat piests of Phyrexia saw fit to relieve him of his wounds with surgical reconstruction. Their handiwork left half his face a skinless metal mask adhering to the contours of his skull, accentuated by a glowing red electric eye newly inserted in his left socket and a series of steel-tipped quills protruding from his scalp in place of hair. His final augmentation saw the attachment of an extra pair of arms—complete with pincer configurations and a hydraulic crush-grip—grafted onto his shoulders. Here again the vat priests had abandoned the façade of flesh and chosen to leave his machine parts bare with just enough casing to protect the most delicate wires. Where artificial arms met the rest of his body, skin ended and bionic construction began.

There was something else about him, Fiora noted, a deep dread welling up inside her at the sight of her captor. Why she could not say, but she feared this man for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with his grotesque appearance or his allegiance to Phyrexia. In a world once real, in a life once lived, she knew him to be a monster long before the invaders found him. He was the maker of the golden-eyed abominations of her dreams, the enemy whose twisted schemes she fought to unmake. He was the stealer of souls, the drinker of death, the father of blasphemy, the bringer of calamities, the herald of world's end. All this he had been before the first ambulators opened in the skies of Elibe. His new masters were Phyrexian, but his evil was his own.

"Three centuries ago the Overlord ordered the extermination of all the world's pegasi and it came to pass," he spoke without pretense for care or compassion. "Today they've returned. You're going to tell me why."

"Monster!" Fiora huffed in resistance, bringing what was left of her weakened voice to bear in a fit of exertion. "I'll tell you nothing!"

"Stupid girl, you have no say in the matter." The human who was no longer human grabbed Fiora's hair in his hydraulic pincers, forcibly pulled back her head, and plunged a syringe full of coppery fluid into an exposed vein where neck met shoulder. The Pegasus knight shuddered briefly, then fell slack.

"I'll…I'll never…betray the sisterhood, villain…" the words barely escaped her lips, with all the effort she put into them. Too many vital faculties were shutting down. The simple act of stringing sentences together was becoming a Herculean feat. "You…can't…make me talk."

"You have no idea how wrong you are." Violently now the man hauled Fiora to her feet, marching her out of her cell, to the laboratories and observation rooms above. "We have ways of making you talk. Whether or not you have anything interesting to say; that's another matter altogether. I care not. Either way the plague lords will find a use for you, if not as an informant than as a carrier. You will serve Phyrexia with or without your precious consent, and the knowledge you bring us will be used to kill your people. How does that sound meat puppet?"

"I'm…not afraid of you…or your threats." Now trembling in pain and shedding beads of cold sweat profusely, Fiora once more expelled her words only with the greatest of efforts. "Do your worst butcher…"

"I already have," the fiend raised his empty syringe in triumph and smiled a malicious smile. "You've been injected with strain Q-36, a fast acting variant of the standard plague. You'll be dead in five minutes without the antidote. Demonstrate in that time that you have words worth hearing, and I may be persuaded to give it to you."

"How this…for words…worth hearing," Fiora spoke in between miserable groans. "Go to Hell!"

"Defiance: a natural reaction at this stage in the illness. You'll be more cooperative once your insides start bleeding. Right about…now."

Groans turned to full-fledged screams as the plague achieved its desired effect. The pain was unimaginable; infection spreading, organs hemorrhaging, systems failing at a soon to be lethal rate. And yet the greatest damage was to be wrought not in the body, but in the mind. The sickness bore unto its victims a state of fevered delirium in which reason could not be known, logic could not be applied, and secrets could not be kept. Already Fiora found herself afflicted; her usual moral clarity eclipsed by an overwhelming awareness of flesh's disease-prone frailty, and a sudden compulsion to be cured by any means necessary.

To fight the pathogenic invasion…

To once more be beautiful and healthy in the arms of her knight...

To live...

"You'll soon be incapable of speech," the dark one cautioned. "Only your secrets can save you. You must tell me everything, while you still can. It's the only way you'll ever make it of this ship alive…"

"…planeswalker…" Fiora whimpered. A part of her had to know Nergal was lying. She didn't care anymore. Her captor would never set her free. She was already dead.

"…His name is Mark…He's a planeswalker…"

_

* * *

__Alright, no more fucking around. It's go time._

Mark teleported to the base of a plague hub guard tower and opened fire on the presiding bloodstock with a bituminous blast of jagged, mana-infused stone. His volley struck the Phyrexian dead-on, ripping open its exoskeletal armor and imbedding the explosive slabs deep inside its segmented-wire torso. Before his foe could muster a response Mark detonated the mana and ignited a tarfire inside the creature's chest, consuming its machine parts in an oil-fed blaze. Pillars of black smoke rose from the wreckage, alerting the rest of the hub to Mark's presence. Sentry Drones sounded the alarm. Defense turrets came online. Negators gathered in black masses to put down the threat.

And Mark was fine with it. The planeswalker was just getting started.

"YOU WANT ME, COME AND GET ME!" Mark's magically amplified voice carried his taunt across the battlefield. The planeswalker teleported again, once more making a great spectacle out of his reappearance. He materialized above the central dome, aglow in midair with red magic.

"_Are you watching Jess?"_ Mark thought to himself and only to himself. Little good it did him. "_You better be. This one's for you." _

He rained down upon his hated enemy with volcanic fallout, smashing into their ranks with flaming boulders and reshaping their terrain with waves of lava. Flame spouts shot forth in great arching columns, and oil fires erupted every which way. Magma spray skelotinized man and machine alike, reducing bone to brimstone and steel to slag. In the midst of it all none would notice the subtle aura of temporal distortion. The Plague Lords could only guess why Xod did not return at once to defend his turf.

"_This one's for the academy!"_ Somewhere in the mountains of Etruria, where once the Academy stood, the land still produced red mana. Memories of his childhood home fueled Mark's sorcery and made his flames burn all the brighter.

From the fires below, Mark retraced his mana signature and summoned forth a Worldheart Phoenix to do his bidding. He commanded the fiery bird to dive-bomb a pack of negators taking aim at him with their cannons, buying Mark the time he needed to work his considerable magic. Fire was a potent weapon, Phyrexian reliance on highly flammable oils notwithstanding. But fire alone would not be enough. Fire was chaotic and unpredictable. For what he was going to do next, Mark needed an element with a bit less flash and a lot more control.

Mark closed his eyes and allowed his memories to shift from his childhood at the Academy to his months at sea with Fargus and the dread pirate crew of the Darvos. In his mind's eye, rocky hills and valleys gave way to foamy crests and troughs. Grizzlies and mountain lions became sharks and sea hawks. Wildfires became whirlpools. Rock slides became tidal waves.

Mark's eyes reopened behind a shimmering screen of azure energy; his crimson cloak of pyromancery eclipsed by cascading blue mana.

Yes, fire had reached the limit of its usefulness. A new approach was now required.

Mark countered his own fire with a spell of sage's dousing, returning the battlefield to a state fit for human habitation. He took note of relevant changes to the field as the fire faded. Craters where boulders had made their fiery fall; vital defensive cover for his soldiers in the heat of battle. Channels where lava had flowed down the path of least resistance; perfect grounds for the stall tactics of trench warfare. Opaque blankets of steam where fire met water; what better way to cloak a massive ambush?

That came next. The brilliant strategist had not come this far to ruin everything by acting out in haste. First he would set the conditions to his liking. Then he would engage the enemy. The battle would be fought on his terms, or it would not be fought at all.

In his final act of preparation, Mark flooded the field and enchanted his waters with a dire undercurrent of his own design. The spell gave Mark near-perfect control over the positioning of his enemy. Wherever he needed them to be, the current would take them. Crafty as always Mark swept away the Phyrexians to his makeshift network of foxholes and trenches, where coalition defenders could most easily make use of their surroundings to hold the lines in defensive formation.

The waters resided at Mark's command. Satisfied at last with conditions on the field, he turned his attention to the negators. Mark knew that for the coalition to succeed, he would have to fight all remaining negators while his mortal army waged war on the Plague Lords. He alone was capable of taking their hits; as such it was incumbent upon the planeswalker to insure that he alone drew their fire. He would take them on separate from the main force; pacing himself carefully so as not to run out of mana for defensive barriers and self-heals. This time he was going to need such things to keep himself alive; this fight would not afford him the luxury of invulnerability to which he had become accustomed. Negator class weaponry was fully capable of hitting planeswalkers for lethal damage, and without upmost care on Mark's part it would most certainly do so.

Already they surrounded him. Fire and flood had ravaged the rest of the Plague hub.

It had barely broken the negators stride.

Mark sized up the opposition; no less than two dozen of the killing machines came at him with claw and cannon. He descended to meet them in battle. To match the negator's might he employed every enchantment in his arsenal, many for the first time, to enhance his own abilities. His aura swelled in technicolor with the chroma of mixed magics:

…Clout of the Dominus for speed and evasion.

…Steel of the Godhead for unblockable, life-stealing attacks.

…Mirror Sheen for the luxury of spell reflection.

…Light of Sanction to protect his own soldiers from the mass-effects of his indiscriminate firepower.

The first wave of negators reached the planeswalker. They unloaded their cannon fire at a distance and sliced through his magic cloak with their metal claws up close. Mark judged the cannon to be far more dangerous, given its ability to launch disruptive sorceries of thought-seizing. A spell of that variety could infiltrate his mind and interfere with his thought-projection, leaving him physically vulnerable just long enough for a rending swipe to do some damage. Or worse.

It was therefore logical to engage the enemy at close range, Mark reasoned. The planeswalker eschewed his usual magics and brought forth his war staff. The ancient weapon of Thran design still performed its original function well enough; so fine was its construction that not even the passage of 9,000 years could dull its edge. Most convenient for Mark, seeing as how it's original function involved murdering Phyrexians with Thran powerstone technology. And that's exactly what Mark needed to do.

His stave's crescent-blade bayonet gleamed with the oscillating, five-colored glow of magic as it bolted upwards to demolish a Phyrexian faceplate. A negator fist moved to stop him with a venom-packed punch. Mark phased through the attack and passed freely through the negator's bulk, rematerializing above and behind the colossal creature to bring an arched-swing crashing down on its spine. The planeswalker followed through with a rush of bane-fire, incinerating a set of oil drenched talons on the predicted backswing.

_Uh-oh…Not good… _

…A rather poor spell choice, Mark realized a moment too late, as the negator's still flaming talons made contact with his face. The planeswalker staggered back from the searing blow, taking additional damage from a metallic knee to the jaw before he even had a chance to heal his first wound. Now through nothing more than force of will Mark held his form together. He focused through the pain, summoning the wherewithal to toss a denying wind between himself and the negator-spawned mass of death clouds swirling his way. He blew the plague winds back from whence they came, protecting himself from their miasma and clearing large swaths of battlefield for human deployment. He raised his war staff once more to block a flaming talon swipe, clashing active powerstone against Thran-Phyrexian Alloy in a display that sent sparks flying. From there, a rapid correction to the staff's torque was all it took for powerstone crystals to bash open a phyrexian skull.

Mark teleported again, and once more the negators followed. He led his pursuers through the plague hub steam valves in a classic game of cat and mouse. Unwittingly, they allowed Mark to kite them around the far corners of the installation. A single priority command directed their movements: _pursue and kill the planeswalker._

It was all they knew.

Mark read their thoughts and manipulated them accordingly.

And now at long last, the planeswalker was satisfied with his control of the field. The ramparts were flooded clear. The terrain was set for a stall war. The hub's mobile army was off fighting in Caelin, its resident negators were thoroughly distracted with his pursuit, and its remaining forces were beatable with human soldiers.

The time for preparation had drawn to a close. With a wave of the hand, Mark summoned the portal that would bring his armies to Ostia.

_DEFENDERS OF ELIBE…BEHOLD! THE FOE!_

The spell went off without a hitch. Following a split second of transport, Tens of thousands of soldiers from all the world over fell into place at their strategic chokepoints. Mark bathed them all in a blood-red aura—a reflection of his own rage—and unto their collective minds issued a decree of savagery.

_Fight my warriors! Fight as you have never fought before: no rest, no mercy,no fear. Fear is for THE ENEMY; fear and DEATH!_

* * *

"Finally…" Karel's face lit up in delight as his blade emerged glistening from a Phyrexian scuta's skull shield. The crab-like creature collapsed dead at his feet. "The feast begins…"

Karel's blademasters made short work of the token resistance left behind on the washed out ramparts. The sword demon himself led the charge, forgoing his usual choice of long sword to dual wield a brutally efficient pair of mage-bane katanas.

The madman's eyes beheld the path ahead; the entrance to central dome had to be just around the next bend. Therein Phyrexia housed its plague generators and spore pods. Even now, the interior would be well guarded.

The more the merrier for Karel.

Reinforcements poured forth from beyond the threshold: four more scuta and a swarm of Phyrexian battle-flies. Karel saw them coming and signaled the charge to a hault. Scuta were easy enough for him to manage. But there was absolutely nothing he could do against the battle-flies; biomechanical insects that burrowed into flesh and exploded like shrapnel grenades. A swarm of them couldn't be fought off with swords or dodged with good reflexes. There was only one real counter for the nasty little buggers: they had to be burnt down immediately, before they reached their target.

Fortunately, Pent's mages were on the job. Burn shortage wasn't going to be a problem.

"Mage Corp, fire at will!" the magic general ordered. "Take down that swarm!"

A scattershot of flaming pillars arched across the field, setting up an immense wall of elfire between Phyrexia and Karel's men. The swarm flew straight though, diminished but not dead. Not enough battle-flies survived to deal lethal damage to the swordsman. But the ones that made it through the flames were no less capable of doing their job. They borrowed through ribs and femurs, then exploded when they could dig no deeper.

Once more Pent's mages were on the job. If it wasn't lethal, a mending stave could fix it.

Karel's swordsmen took the hit for the mages, allowing the flies to detonate among their ranks while the Etrurian's healed through the damage. Immediately after they were on the offensive again, slicing up more Scuta and advancing on the dome.

* * *

"Knight's of Etruria, hold the lines!" Saint Renault shouted. "Your cause is just; your convictions righteous. Fight well, and Elimine's blessing shall be upon you!"

The words meant nothing to Renault, for he knew them to be false. Blessings came not from conflict and strife, but from journey and self-discovery. Yet if soldiers took comfort in such thoughts, as he knew they did, he would be negligent as a leader to not say something of the sort on the eve of battle. Was that not his job as High Father of Elimine's flock; to rally the spirits of those who fought for the faith?

They needed all the rallying they could get. They were outnumbered and overmatched; minutes into the fight the dead were piling up on both sides. Blood and oil ran knee deep in the trenches, where wave after wave of Phyrexian shock troopers crashed against a line of bogged down armor. Heavily-clad knights wielded spears to hold the enemy at bay, while Kutolah horseman peppered them with explosive arrows and mage corp. valkyries harrassed them with thunderbolts.

Phyrexians needed nothing of the sort; they fought with claws and venom. Three of them mobbed an Etrurian general in the bloodbath that was the trenches, pinning the armored soldier face-down in a pool of gore and drowning him in the blood of his own men. With the general down, hoards of Phyrexians rushed to break through the defensive lines. Renault would not allow it; a curtain of light from Aureola surpressed the rush while a recently healed halbardier moved back to the front to take his comrade's place.

"Hold the lines!" the saint repeated. He held his Staff of Fortification high overhead; almost single-handedly keeping the frontline alive with his incredible healing power. Raven and Guy flanked him from both sides, cutting down any hostile that got too close to the High Father. "Keep them from the dome; Lord Pent's work must not be interrupted!"

Renault wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. It had been like this non-stop since the battle started, one breach after another. At this rate the coalition was going to run out of armor before Phyrexia ran out of expendable killers. How long could they stall out in the trenches? How long until the next breach broke through?

Renault looked to the ramparts. Pent had only now gained entry to the inner workings of the hub via the top floor, and according to Mark the dome's plague generators were located in the basement levels. Which meant the strike force wasn't even close to its objective. Pent needed time to complete his mission, and somehow Renault was going to have to buy it for him. By any means necessary, even if he had to throw himself into the trenches.

"Sir, General Duncan just took a brainbite to the face," a nameless soldier reported. The messenger wasn't in the best of shape either from the look of it. "He's out cold sir, and the enemies pushing hard. What should we do?"

"Oh for the love of…why am I even wasting my time back here? PRISCILLA!" Renault shouted.

"Here milord."

"Take my staff," Renault passed his fortifier to the troubadour. "You're in charge of heals now."

"…milord?"

"Keep the frontline alive and kicking," the Regal Blade slid free from its scabbard and easily found its way into Renault's grip. "Raven, Guy, you come with me."

"Where to sir?"

"Into the fray," the swordsman turned Saint now turned swordsman once more strong-armed his way to the front of the bloodbath. "We lead by example."

"I like the sound of that," Raven smirked and gave Guy a friendly slap on the back. "Come on kid, let's show these know-nothing knights how it's done!"

The trio positioned themselves at the head of the phalanx—Renault front and center, Raven and Guy guarding him from both sides. Renault himself had once been among the most feared swordsman in Elibe, Karel's equal or greater in both ability and renown back in the prime of his life. He had been a legend back when the Sword Demon himself was still in diapers. "The Blade-Berserker," they called him. The Butcher of Bern; the most brutal mercenary ever to take up the way of the sword.

Today, dripping with blood and oil in the killing fields of Ostia, a new generation of heroes would see a glimmer of the terror he had once been.

Hector's words in his reality:

Once a villain, always a villain…

Once a butcher, always a butcher…

* * *

"Worthless, tactician," Vaida grumbled. "We have Arcadian dragon's waiting in the wing, and all I get is a flock of flying ponies. Absurd, absolutely absurd…"

Vaida's Malte spear gutted a dragon engine's throat, shutting down its breath attack and relieving a good deal of pressure on the ground forces below. They needed all the help they could get from the look of it; the Etrurians were taking enough of a beating without having to worry about gouts of dragon fire breaking their formations. For this the Malte was well-suited. Forged to do tremendous damage to Elibe's native mamukate in the dragon-human wars—not unlike Durandal and Armads—the spear of Ilia's knight-champion proved equally effective against Phyrexia's machine variants. The dragon went down amidst a chorus of buzzing wings.

Buzzing wings? That could only mean…

"Battle swarm incoming!" an underling lieutenant cautioned on the fly. "Watch yourself general, those bugs are trouble!"

"Looks like the mages missed a few." Vaida huffed in annoyance. The wyvern general ceased her dragon-slaying and kicked her mount into a steep dive. "FARINA!"

"Way ahead of you ma'am," The cocky pegaus knight waved her flame javelin in a sweeping arc, strafing Vaida's airspace with a red-hot spark spray. The general's dive carried her well out of harm's way. The battleflies weren't so lucky; their pursuit of the wyvern mistress carried them directly into Farina's burn trail.

"How's that?" Farina called out to the general tongue-and-cheek. "Impressed yet? There's plenty more where that came from."

"Easy soldier, that was nothing special," Vaida cancelled her dive and moved to reengage the bulkier flyers. "You did what you were expected to do. No more. No less."

"Good boasting makes for high salaries," Farina countered. "Might as well start now; if I survive this, my lance will be worth a fortune!"

"If you survive the next five minutes I'll be, genuinely amazed…" Vaida looked to the aeries of the monolith towers below, where a new wave of flying horrors looked to be taking wing. "Make yourself useful and go rally the Strormwing brigade. Make for the towers. I want that rat's nest cleared out, double time!"

"Fine, but I expect 20,000 in hazard pay if I…"

"Damn it soldier, this isn't up for negotiation! Rally the stormwings and clean out that aerie, NOW, before I clean you out! That's an order!" Vaida barked.

"Yes ma'am," Farina gulped nervously and flew off.

"Imbecile…" Vaida fumed. A pity that this was all she had left in the way of lieutenants. With Fiora M.I.A.—probably frozen dead in a ditch back in Ilia–and no one else of note rising through the ranks, Farina really was the best Ilia had to offer. What a shame. The good ones always died young, and the insufferable fools seemed to live forever.

Vaida had no patients for any of them.

The wyvern general allowed herself a moment's peace. Not to relax, but to assess the field.

The air war appeared to be soundly under control. Phyrexian fliers were few in numbers, and ill-prepared to handle a battalion of pegasus knights equipped with wyrmslayer weapons.

The ground war on the other hand was…most disturbing.

The Etrurian front was collapsing right before her very eyes. The trenches were compromised; a single Plague Lord dispersed coalition defenders with bursts of peppersmoke and infested their ranks with swarms of blister beetles. They killed human soldiers with disease and reanimated them with magic, bringing them back as filthy-rotting maggot engines to complete the cycle of infection. Coalition forces staged a massive retreat, ceding their defensive terrain to the horrific onslaught. Phyrexian shock troopers surged forward across the relinquished ground with their patchwork arsenal of killing instruments. Buzz-saws and power-drills whirled viciously, drawing closer to the Etrurian army inch by inch. Etrurian knights fought with their back to the wall, keeping the Phyrexians at bay only to the extent that a steel lance could outreach a machine arm.

Then it happened; one man broke the siege from behind enemy lines. And not just any man—Vaida couldn't believe what she was seeing—The old sack of bones from the Elimine Church; he must have positioned himself before the enemy advance to pull off such a perfect maneuver. He vaulted out from the far-side of the trenches with a clear line of sight on the enemy commander, waving his sword in one hand and producing a light rune in the other. The Plague Lord saw the swordsman coming and attempted to neutralize the threat with a hypnotic cloud. Renault disrupted the casting with a flick of the wrist, hurling his light rune like a throwing-star and sinking the makeshift weapon deep into the creature's bulbous brain. In his finest hour he did the work of two men, following through at melee range with a hack-and-slash assault that left the Plague Lord in pieces.

The Phyrexian's death nullified its magic. No more smoke. No more infestations. No more wracking pains and sudden sickness.

The worst of the offensive was over.

Etruria rallied with renewed hope, inspired by Renault's heroism. With thrusts and jabs they pushed back, a wall of synchronized soldiers advancing lockstep to reclaim the front. Fortified by Priscilla, they were once more healthy enough to take the fight to the enemy.

Renault had shown them the way. How quickly the tides of battle turn.

Vaida still couldn't believe what she was seeing. The old priest was bolder and crazier than the most hotheaded recruit, and he fought like a man in the prime of his life. If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought she was watching the blade arts of Karel. One thing was certain, Vaida knew from the performance. He'd done this sort of work before; the old man was no stranger to the way of the sword.

The situation looked to be improving.

How quickly the tides of battle turn…

It came without preamble. Death from above: an open-deck metal hull with giant leathery bat wings growing out the back, insect chitin landing spines growing out the bottom, and a fungal bulb of a cockpit growing out the front. Port and starboard ray-cannons, a full payload of mana bombs, two stationary forward cannons and a rotatable rear gunnery rounded out the ships weapon systems. It was a machine beyond anything Elibe's residents could comprehend or hope to fight; technology beyond the limits of their civilization.

The warship was on full combat alert. Mark hadn't planned for this contingency. No one had.

No one was prepared for what came next. Not even the Phyrexians.

* * *

**NEXT CHAPTER: In addition to covering the ongoing battles in Lycia, I'll be skipping back to the Dragon Realm for a major scene with the ice dragons. I really, REALLY want to bring Ninian into this story. Not as a whiney little damsel in distress, but as a mighty leader among dragons who just straight-up stomps the shit out of everything. **

**Also, I have a request/recommendation for my readers. Go see ****The Watchmen****. Aside from being…well…basically the best superhero movie ever made (yes people, its better then ****The Dark Knight****), it's the best motion picture illustration you're ever going to get of what a planeswalker is and how such beings function. There is a character in ****The Watchmen**** named Dr. Manhattan and basically, his superpower is he's God. His fellow heroes must yield to him as ordinary humans would yield to superman. Because there is absolutely nothing they can do to hurt him, and he can erase their existence with a glare and an angry thought. Back to my original point. Go see ****The Watchmen****, watch Dr. Manhattan, and think "Planeswalker." Not only is he comparable in power to a several thousand year old planeswalker, this god-hero behaves and interacts with his fellow heroes in the same manner that planeswalker's are portrayed as acting in MTG novels. See the movie. Read the books. Tell me I'm wrong.**


	23. Exodus of the Ice Dragons

**"One whom the dragons will speak with," he said, "that is a  
dragonlord, or at least that is the center of the matter. It's  
not a trick of mastering the dragons, as most people think.  
Dragons have no masters. The question is always the same, with  
a dragon: will he talk to you or will he eat you? If you can  
count upon his doing the former, and not doing the latter, why  
then you're a dragonlord."**

**[ The Tombs of Atuan, by Ursula K. Le Guin ]**

**

* * *

**

Chapter 23: Exodus of the Ice Dragons

King Deghinsea was known for a great many things. Hospitality was not one of them. The zeal with which he fought to keep trespassers out of his realm was the stuff of legends.

Goldoa maintained a strict policy of isolationism under Deghinsea's rule. If the king had it his way, no outsider would ever be allowed to set foot on Goldoan soil. Yet there were some visitors even the King of Black Dragons couldn't refuse. The Oracle of the Ice Dragons was one of them.

Eight hundred years ago she had first appeared on Tellius—two hundred years after the scouring of Elibe—warning all who would lend their ears that the world was about to be destroyed by flood. By her word, the arcanist Lehran had crafted a spell to hold back the oceans. That Tellius still stood proud above the waves while the rest of the world crusted over on the sea floor was testament to the power of her prophecy.

Goldoa's ubiquitous portal to the Dragon Realm stood atop a massive dais on the balcony of Deghinsea's palace, overlooking prehistoric valleys and ancient lakes for miles in every direction. The balcony itself fanned out as an open-aired extension of the monarch's council chambers, a circular stone-hewn room in which King Deghinsea and his advisors held court. So when the portal flashed to life with draconic magic and the Oracle Ninian stepped forth for the first time in over twenty years (her last visit predicting the Serenes Massacre), all the king's men took notice.

"Hail, noble hierarchs of Goldoa," Ninian wasted no time in addressing the King of Black Dragons and his court. Her message was urgent. "I come bearing both warning and plea. Remember the services I have done unto you in ages past and judge accordingly; for my people have need of your kindness. Kadath is under siege, it's dragons hunted to extinction by the armies of Phyrexia." Ninian turned than to address Deghinsea directly. "By your grace, o' King of Dragons, my people would seek asylum in Goldoa."

"In all things, Goldoa remains neutral," Deghinsea would not be moved. "Your troubles are not our troubles, daughter of Ni'Nis. I will give no quarter to your strife."

"It comes to one as it comes to all…" Ninian spoke prophetically. "They will march on Tellius next. Nations will stand together or die alone. As you are, Goldoa will be first to fall."

"Madness!" Deghinsea would hear nothing of it. "We alone have been true to the covenant. No foe may assail our kingdom while the goddess holds vigil over the world."

"Ashera's protection will avail you not against the Overlords of Phyrexia. Their god is stronger than your god. Their blessings are stronger than your blessings."

"Blasphemy, Blasphemy I say! Goddess Ashera is the highest power on Tellius!"

"…And yet there are many worlds beyond Tellius where beings far more powerful then Ashera reside. You know this to be true, son of Bolas. Was not your father once the strongest among them?"

"Nicol-Bolas hasn't set foot on Tellius in over two thousand years. Goddess Ashera watches over us and judges our actions each and every moment. I would trust in no higher power to keep invaders at bay."

"Milord…" a foreign chancellor who Ninian recognized as the heron Lehran—wingless, but otherwise unchanged—advised Deghinsea. "You would do well to remember the Oracle's talents. Ignore her at your own peril; ice dragons are renowned for their extraordinary powers of divination. All that she says will come to pass."

"I have seen the outcomes," Ninian affirmed. "Take us in and Phyrexia will attack you. Turn us away and Phyrexia will attack you still. Deny me if you must, but do not be so foolish as to think you are doing a service to your people. It comes to one as it comes to all…in isolation, there is only death."

"To be clear then…" Lehran took Ninian's warning with the gravest sense of urgency. He too was a blessed servant of Ashera, but unlike Deghinsea he did not subscribe to blind faith in his goddess. Deghinsea believed Ashera would protect the faithful from whatever harm came their way. Lehran knew better. He had lost so much, and his goddess had done nothing. Life had taught him to trust always in action before prayer. "…You do believe that it is possible to prevail against this foreseen foe. Not as we are, but with allies. With united armies by our side."

"More than that, you must rally the world to its own defenses," Ninian instructed. "Wield green and white mana, the essence of life and purity. It is poison to Phyrexians. Awaken the leylines and the invaders will be unmade."

"…Leylines?" Deghinsea knew not of such things.

"The currents of mana," Lehran explained to the assembly of perplexed Goldoans. He alone had knowledge of high magic and understood something of its true nature. "As the world's water moves in tides and currents, so too does it's magic. Green leylines run from the Goldoan tropics to the Sea of Trees in Gallia. White Leylines run from the Ribahn River Basin all the way up to the Ohma Flats in Crimea. The green and white leylines meet at Deepwood Altar, in the heart of Serenes Forest."

"Then that is where all the world's champions must rally," Ninian spoke, eyes aglow with far-sight. "Defend the leylines at all costs, even if you hold but one nation against the enemy's seven. Use the Galdrar of herons to tap its power, and you will have defenses greater then Ashera's strongest blessing."

Lehran approved. Deghinsea found the very suggestion blasphemous.

"Conflict on the scale you describe will awaken the Goddess and bring down her judgment upon the world. I will not be party to it." Deghinsea spoke decisively. "Goldoa will not move! Only by the Goddess's command shall we use our power for war."

"Then we have nothing more to discuss," Ninian bowed. "Take heed. The warning has been given."

With that Ninian slipped back through the portal, sealing the gateway behind her from the other side. Deghinsea had not heard her. But she knew someone else had; someone with both the means and the motive to drive the world to war.

That would have to do.

* * *

"Well…how did it go?" Nils asked hopefully.

He awaited his sister's return in the marble courtyard of her mountaintop temple. Beside him stood Captain Vael of Ninian's elite guards, a hulking cobalt behemoth with forward-curving horns and an ornate crest of wavy, cyan frills. In human form he took the guise of a sharp-faced man with lengthy blue hair, a clean-shaven face, and a full suit of scale-mail armor. Even then he was enormous, tall and broad-chested, a warrior through and through. Ninian's magic only made him stronger. The Oracle's sworn men were all permanent recipients of her boon gifts.

"As expected," Ninain couldn't exactly say she was surprised. "Deghinsea refused us at every turn. Stubborn old fool…"

"So that's it then…" Nils had all but resigned himself to spending the rest of his days on the run, hiding from Phyrexian death machines in the frozen wilderness with his sister and Vael. "Deghinsea was our last out. There's no where left to run."

"Not necessarily. A messenger from the Old World will reveal the path that must be followed. His arrival is imminent," Ninian predicted with prophetic clarity. "See him in without hassle. He's already running late..."

"Late?" At that very moment, Ir'Adanos and his contingent of Arcadian Dragons flew into view above Kadath's cloud cover, ascending the icy summits of lesser peaks to reach the Temple grounds. "And here I didn't even know I was expected. Bravo Oracle, it would seem your reputation is well deserved."

"But you_ are_ late," Ninian saw the Arcadian's flight path in second-sight. "Your journey, it shouldn't have taken this long. You were…impeded."

"Yes, your lands are far from hospitable to travelers. You take the ice in your veins for granted. It took a considerable sum of magic just to cut through the cold. "

"As well it should. The snows have long been our greatest defense. Even now, they repel all but the overlord himself."

"Yet the overlord alone is more than capable of destroying your entire realm. So it would seem, oh Oracle, that your reign on Kadath has come to a most abrupt end. Perhaps now would be an ideal time to look into…other options. A return to the land of your birth…"

"…To what ends? What exactly are you proposing?" Ninian asked warily.

"I come bearing a message from the planeswalker Mark," Ir'Adanos announced. "He has gathered the human armies of Elibe in Ilia, to stand and fight against Phyrexia as a united front. He bids you return to defend your ancestral holdings."

"And why should we?" Captian Vael challenged, violet eyes flashing in anger. "If we are to make a stand, it will be here in Kadath. Let Elibe be dead and buried; we have no obligation to the world that drove us out." Many in his congregation of dragons nodded and affirmed their assent, making it known that Vael was not alone in his sentiments.

"Because there are things you can do on Elibe that you can't do here or anywhere else," Ir'Adanos answered readily. The dragon-sorcerer fully expected survivors of the Scouring to greet Mark's offer with dark suspicions. "Ancient and powerful defenses lay dormant beneath the snows of Ilia; nothing on Kadath can be called their equal. You know this to be true, Priestess. You know what was left behind at the ruins of Anka-Parunga."

"I was there the day we sealed the Tomb of Intet. I know better than any what was lost to us in the Scouring," Ninian confirmed.

"Then you know what Mark expects of you. The blue primeval slumbers beneath the mountain. He wants you to awaken it."

"And this planeswalker, this Mark, what does he know? Is he aware what awakening a primeval would entail?"

"I should think not. Otherwise he would not ask it of you."

"Once the first primeval awakens, it will seek out the other four. Should all five rise, their combined power will hold tyranny over the world."

"Mark will not allow this."

"Mark may falter," Ninian countered. "Planeswalkers are not above error."

"And yet he is your last, best hope to see your race intact. Return to Elibe on his terms and you may yet salvage your ancient kingdom."

"What terms, messenger? Are we to return as dragons or as slaves?"

"…That Mark be granted complete military authority over the dragon nations of the realm. That you allow him to direct your forces. That you obey his commands without question. And that you assist him in his efforts to resurrect the Blue Primeval at the Mountain of the Ice Dragon. That is all."

"And after the war…what then?" Vael's outrage would not be silenced. "What becomes of us when humans no longer depend on our protection? Their lives are short, their memories shorter. Will their children remember how we stood beside them? Will their children's children? How long until they chase us out of Ilia with torches and pitchforks?"

"What awaits us in the days to come, the world will never forget," the Oracle spoke. "Those who stand and fight will forever be remembered as heroes of their time, and great nations shall be made of their legacies."

"Still…joining forces with _humans_," Captain Vael snarled in disgust. "…the sons of our father's slayers, the heathen folly who banished us to these desolate peaks! _WE_ come to _THEIR_ aid? Ancestors forgive us, what have we become! "

"Is it not plain enough?" Ninian answered solemnly. "We become as we must. We are the last of the dragon nations. The old ways die with us. It is for this very reason-for our ancestors, for their civilization, for their way of life—that we must persevere and thrive at all costs."

"Then you will join coalition forces in Ilia?" Ir'Adanos prompted.

"I will…" Ninian offered, "But on no one's terms but my own."

"And can your terms be reconciled with Mark's?"

"We shall see…" Ninian pondered. "I must know more of Mark and his intentions. Leave me now; I must consult the spirits."

"Of course. By your leave, Oracle..."

All but Ninian retreated to the temple's inner sanctum, leaving the Oracle unattended in her marble courtyard to focus her powers in silence. So many questions: Who was Mark? What was he after? Could he be trusted? Was he truly capable of defeating Xod?

_Ancestors guide me, for I am lost._ Ninian prayed. She prostrated herself before a silver statue of Chromium Rhuell, the father of blue dragons and the progenitor of her race. _The footsteps of fate lead back to Elibe; this much is clear. Yet what fate is there in bondage to a planeswalker? Is this our future? Is this the path I must follow? Show me the way elder Rhuell, exalted most high. My eyes are blind to all but your grandest truths. _

The answers came as it always did: surging through her in a collective rush of visions and insights. All at once she had her answers. All at once she knew what had to be done.

Mark was no angel, but he would have to do. Ninian's visions had revealed enough of her altered past to gauge the planeswalker's character and judgment in the days before his ascension. She was mostly impressed with what she saw. The Mark she had known was a brilliant strategist with deep compassion for his troops and a sterling reputation for winning hopeless battles. In his prime he held the trust of Lycian nobility, the Mage General of Etruria, and even wise all-seeing Athos. The Sword Demon obeyed him. The Angel of Death killed at his command. Ninian too had served him; even in her drained and weakened state she had been an asset to his cause. Although she had never trusted him as fully as Lord Eliwood, she had no reason to think ill of Mark.

_Lord Eliwood…_

Ninian remembered him fondly. He was different from the others. He had shown her a selfless, redemptive love she had not thought possible in humans. He cherished her even after she took his father's life. She cherished him even after he struck her down with Durandal. Now he was in grave danger, caught once more in one of Mark's crazy schemes. Ninian knew this, for her visions had shown her glimpses of distant Lycia and the war being waged therein. She saw Eliwood and Hector, still fighting for their lives in Caelin. They were battle-weary. They were hopelessly outnumbered. Their survival didn't seem to be particularly high on Mark's list of priorities, and they weren't going to last much longer on their own.

Ninian knew right then and there what she had to do. The ice dragons would return to Elibe. But they would do so under her command and no one else's. Mark was not her master; only the Five Elders and their primeval avatars held sway over the Dragon Nations. Their power would not be abused on her watch.

Ninian shifted into her dragon form and let forth a resounding roar; an edict to her dragonkin. The echo-chamber acoustics of the Silver Mountains carried the edict to every corner of her kingdom.

"**Warriors of the blue flight! I have received instruction from the Elder Spirit. Assemble at the Dragon's Gate. Make haste: avoid Phyrexians when able, fight only if you must. We have no time for petty skirmishes. " **The Oracle instructed.** "Take with you anything you do not wish left behind. We're leaving Kadath, and we're not coming back."**

"You have decided then…" Vael was back at her side in an instant. The honor-bound guardian never left his priestess unattended for longer than he could help. He would stand at her side fulltime if she would permit it.

"I have…"

"You would have us submit to Mark?"

"No…you obey my orders and no one else's. Leave the planeswalker to me," Ninian took wing as she spoke. She was on the move. "Where is the Arcadian?"

"With Nils, at the reflecting pools. Your brother shows great interest in his tales of the Old Kingdom."

"He has felt it too then; the ancient yearnings grow stronger each day," Ninian called out to her brother through their spirit bond. He would join her, as would Ir'Adanos. They would not be going back to Ilia with the rest of their kind. Not yet anyway. "Mark is not the only one calling us back to Elibe…our heritage speaks to us. Intet waits, not dead but dreaming. Only an Oracle of the Chromium bloodline can break the seal which binds her. You feel it too, don't you?"

"It's…distant. Faint but distinct, like a voice on the wind," Vael focused his memories. "Sometimes I hear it in my waking hours. Sometimes in my dreams; but always it is the same. It calls me back to the Mountain."

"Back to the tomb. Always back to the tomb..."

"But…you have warned us often Oracle," Vael cautioned. "Tempt not the power of the Primevals and dare not complete their circle. The one will awaken the four. Together they are beyond all and all else is beneath them."

"I know. That's what makes this so difficult," Ninian scowled. "There are no good choices. Do we withhold our true power and fall before Phyrexia or do the one thing we have sworn to never again do: invoke the very first one and lay bare the world for the Old God's return?"

"Death by invasion or death by our own hand. Quite the conundrum…" Vael touted. "And I don't suppose Deghinsea will be any more cooperative now with his sovereignty at stake."

"Of course…Deghinsea will kill us when he finds out what we're doing. When the Black Primeval rises to claim lordship of his tribe, he will know we have moved against him and he will act accordingly," Ninian predicted. "Yet by then it will be to late…it comes to one as it comes to all."

"Always you speak in riddles. What does that even mean?"

"…Only that Deghinsea will have more pressing matters to attend to in the days to come then punishing us for breaking the old taboos. This will be a new kind of war, one in which his 2,000 year old percepts of what is praiseworthy and what is detestable will have very little meaning. The King will learn quickly, or he will fall hard. There can be no other outcomes."

"Hmph…knowing that one, that's not really a choice at all. Deghinsea is set in his ways. Learning much of anything has never been that stubborn old fossils forte."

"Then Goldoa is lost, and ours is truly the last of the Dragon Nations," Ninian surveyed her domain on Kadath one last time. It was breathtaking; truely a paradise for her kind. But it was a lie. Her whole world was a lie and an illusion; an artificial plane fabricated by the design of some ancient mage-dragon seeking refuge for his tribe in the darkest days of the scouring. This was not her birth land. This was not her kingdom. "What power we have…whatever powers we have left untapped…we must use them. Even if we must embrace our most savage aspects, even if we must become like the Primevals themselves. We must carry on the ancient lineage…the old ways."

"Ninian!"

A streak of blue broke through the wispy clouds several hundred feet beneath her. Nils—small for a dragon even at his age, but lightning fast—had bolted ahead of the others and caught up to his sister quickly. He had heard the news, and he was ecstatic.

"Ninian, Is it true! Are we really going home? Back to Ilia?"

"Yes…eventually." Ninian gave a guarded answered. "First we trek the Southern Kingdoms. In the land the humans call Caelin, there is something I must do."

"Come on!" Nils complained. "We're on the run; we have no time to waste. You said so yourself. There's nothing for us below the snowline. Let's just go home right now!"

"If you want to break straight for Ilia with the rest of the flight, go ahead." Ninian banked south and redoubled her pace with a strong tailwind filtering through the mountains. "I'm going to Caelin. I'll meet up with you in a bit."

"If you're going, I'm going." Vael followed. "Me and my men; you have too many enemies to be moving about unattended."

"Well if you're both going, I'm going too. But why?" Nils pressed

"It's…complicated…" Ninian refused to give a direct answer. Nils had not received her vision. He had no memory of Eliwood's Army. He would not understand. She couldn't expect him to understand. "Someone there is in grave danger. Someone very close to me…"

"You haven't seen Elibe in more than 800 years," Vael reminded her. "You don't even know anyone in Caelin."

"I told you…it's complicated." Ninian huffed in frustration. She could hear it already…the cries of 'human-lover' and 'race-traitor' that were sure to ensue when her true motives were revealed. They would learn eventually of course. For the time being though it was just one more unnecessary piece of stress. The longer she could keep her brother and her bodyguard in the dark, the better.

"Shouldn't we at least wait for the Arcadians?" Nils asked.

"No, they'll just slow us down." Ninian dismissed the suggestion. "Leave them to their sorcery. They know the way back."

"Is that how we treat our guests now?" Vael asked tongue-and-cheek.

"Priorities, Vael. You must learn them." Ninian reprimanded.

"We don't know what our priorities are because you won't tell us!" Nils snapped.

"All will be revealed in good time…" Ninian assured her brother.

Time…the greatest of all ironies. It is the one thing in the world that is truly infinite. Yet when it is needed most, it always seems to be in short supply.

_Eliwood…keep yourself alive just a little longer. You were there for me when I was at my most vulnerable. Now I get to return the favor. _

_

* * *

_

"Damn it, there's too many of them!" Hector swore. With exhausted effort, his axe rose and crashed downward to split a reaper drone in half. Two more of the faceless, blade-armed killers immediately took its place…again. Without pain receptors or self-preservation instincts, the machines kept on coming. "They just don't stop! What are we supposed to do against…THIS!"

Hector cleaved another reaper and was again set upon by two more.

"Fallback back…back to the catacombs!" Eliwood rolled through the closing pincers of a Phyrexian Gargantuan, stabbed an incoming slayer drone through the heart with the full length of Durandal's blade, and turned to meet his pursuing foe with a vicious flame barrage. It was impossible to miss…the gargantuan literally occupied the entire hallway skittering forward on its quadruped arrangement of spiny crablike legs. Its copper-hewed carapace scraped the dungeon ceiling as it moved.

The flame barrage hit…and did absolutely nothing. The gargantuan simply pressed on forward, mindlessly trampling the slayer drone Eliwood had already killed underfoot, and proceeded onward towards him with the corpse of the lesser construct impaled on its front limb.

"**Adversity into advantage soldier**," the spirit of Roland spoke to Eliwood. "**You know what to do."**

Eliwood saw the opportunity to strike and seized it. This time he didn't even need instruction from his guardian spirit; he knew _exactly_ what to do. Calling once more upon Durandal's sacred fire, the clever youth took another shot at the gargantuan. This time aiming for that leg...

**BOOM!**

Eliwood's efforts were rewarded as the second flame barrage impacted against the impaled slayer's corpse, igniting the oil-blood dripping from its open wounds and fueling an explosion of sufficient force to sever the gargantuan's adjacent limb. Still the gargantuan felt no pain and no sense of urgency, continuing to hobble forward on its three remaining good legs. It lurched noticeably as it moved however—unable to balance the heavy load of its main body—and after several strained steps the entire thing collapsed. Brought to ground, Eliwood finished the gargantuan off with ease.

Still…there were _so_ many of them. Phyrexians kept pouring down the broken stairway; casualties incurred seemingly having no effect whatsoever on the moral or combat efficiency of subsequent waves. They just kept piling up and piling up with no end in sight.

"This way!" Hector blasted through a full squad of drones with a burst of chain-lightning from Armads, clearing the hallway they had once blocked and securing a temporary escape route for himself and Eliwood. The deft duo met up fleeing down the dungeon corridor, firing behind them synchronized magical attacks from their legendary weapons to cover their retreat. A gauntlet of lightning and fire might at least slow their pursuers down…

"We have to get out of here," Hector huffed as he ran. "If there's any logic at all to this Castle's design, then the Royal Family's escape tunnel should be just ahead."

"Hector…this way's a dead end," Eliwood cautioned. Sure enough, the hallway looked to be coming to an abrupt end.

"Wanna bet?" Hector smirked. Confidently he swung his axe at the dungeon wall before him, revealing a secret passage behind the crumbling obstruction. "Ostian stone masons built every castle in Lycia, and they used pretty much the same design for all of them. Makes our life a whole lot easier. Come on, let's go!"

"Wait…we can't leave yet!"

"Eliwood! What's gotten into you? Don't tell me you want to go back for Lloyd and Legault…"

"We have to stay," Eliwood pleaded. "If we run, we're sitting ducks out in the open. But if we stay here someone will come to help us, I know it! We can overwhelm them with new allies if we just wait…"

"Don't be stupid! We're on our own down here. The guardians barely lasted a single wave and Mark is busy with his own battles. No one is coming for us." Hector shivered, noticing that the air suddenly seemed much colder.

"Hector, I need you to trust me. I don't know how…but I know. Someone's coming. Don't you feel it?"

"The only thing I feel is hell freezing over," Hector shivered again. "What's happening? This isn't normal."

"…"

"Eliwood?"

"…She came back…" Eliwood seemed to be staring off into space intently, transfixed on some unseeable point over the horizon. He seemed completely unaffected by the cold, Hector noted. He seemed to have gone physically numb. "After everything I put her through…she still came back?"

"Come on, snap out of it Eliwood. The Phyrexians are coming. This is a waste of time…HEY ELIWOOD, GET BACK HERE! YOU'RE RUNNING BACK INTO THE ENEMY SWARM YOU IDIOT!" Hector ran after the lordling knight, cursing up a storm the entire way. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMN MIND!"

"On the contrary Hector…I'm as sane as I've ever been!" Eliwood stabbed downward with Durandal ablaze, blowing a hole in the floor which he promptly vaulted through. Hector followed, recognizing now where they were going. Deathmate's Row: the lowest level cellblock. Before the battle began, Eliwood had ordered one of his guardian squads to stash the Black Fang assassins in the relative safety of the lower cells.

"So you _are_ going back for Lloyd and Legault," Hector grumbled. "Soft son of a bitch, you're gonna get us both killed trying to save our god-damn ENEMIES! Every single time…why you gotta keep doing this shit Eliwood?"

"They're not our enemies…not anymore. And we're not going to die saving them," Eliwood grinned confidently. "We're all getting out of here in one piece."

"They'll be a thousand drones between us and the exit by the time we double back," Hector saw no reason to be so confident. "How are we going to fight our way past them AND keep those Black Fang invalids out of trouble?"

"We won't even have to," Eliwood's grin widened as the ceiling—and presumably everything else on the upper levels—completely frosted over. The roar of a mighty dragon resounded once more through ice and stone. In that instant the battle ended and the slaughter began: a thousand Phyrexians froze and shattered like glass. "Ninian just did it for us."

* * *

**I take extreme liberties with Ninian's character in this chapter. I justify all relevant changes with the following explanation: the Ninian we all know and love from FE7 was walking around with her powers drained and her spirit diminished for pretty much the entire game. In the one scene where we actually get to see the REAL Ninian, she casually disposes of three fire dragons with a single attack. We know that even by dragon standards she is EXTREMLY powerful, and we know from Nils's conversation with Eliwood and Athos that Ninian is a spiritual leader of sorts among the ice dragons. This is what I imagine her character would be like if she hadn't first been soul-drained and demoralized by Nergal before making her in-game appearance.**

**WHAT TO LOOK FORWARD TO IN UPCOMING CHAPTERS (if I ever actually get around to writing any of them. Not gonna lie…I'm so un-motivated) **

**-Forblaze wielding Pent vs. Cyber-Nergal. Karel fights too…but he doesn't really do anything except take a face full of ERESHKIGAL before going down.**

**-Planeswalker Elimine (yeah…she's a planeswalker now), unable to return to Elibe due to the planar distortions of the time anomaly, transfers planeswalker powers to her mortal champion so that he may fight Phyrexia in her steed. Basically…Renault's about to go Super Saiyin. **

**-Xod vs. Mark: the first encounter. Mark gets owned—horribly—barely escaping with his sanity intact after Xod hits him with Mind Rot and Underworld Dreams. **


	24. Fools and Sages

This story is so strange to me when I read it in its entirety. I was in high school writing compulsively when I started drafting the early chapters. Now I'm a graduate student, writing when I feel like it and have time. Flipping through the chapters, I can see my writing developing over the years; my voice as an author maturing. It's pretty cool.

But enough of that. Here's chapter 24 of the first fanfic I ever wrote. I still don't own Fire Emblem…

Chapter 24: Fools and Sages

"**One day, someone will best me. But today is not that day, and you are not that someone."**

**-A Mage Master's Taunt-  
**

"Open fire," Nergal commanded.

"Sir, our own forces are in range. If we fire at this distance we'll…"

The offending back-talker dropped dead mid sentence, his vital force peeling away from him in a stream that flowed to Nergal's outstretched hand. The drained force melted into Nergal's aura and caused it to swell with menace.

"Our forces can be rebuilt. There's can't." The dark druid turned Phyreixan general would justify himself no further. "Open fire."

No one dared question him a second time. His flagship's doomcannon flared to life and took aim at the battlefield below.

Phyrexian constructs.

Etrurian knights.

Both were fodder for Nergal's ambitions. He sought quintessence to grow his power, and maximizing casualties of war on both sides would release the most of it. He needed only a pretense of strategy to appease Xod. Surely the sacrifice of expendable minions was not something the Overlord would find objectionable.

The shots rang out. Wide-angled beams of expanding plasma swept over the plague hub's besieged grounds, disintegrating everything that they touched. Nergal couldn't help but leer in delight at the scale of death and destruction below. So many lives ending….the _FORCE _unleashed would be beyond anything he had ever achieved with his previous schemes.

**I am who I am. The pain of others, I do not feel.**

He drank it all in. The fear. The pain. The final moments of anguish before all hope is lost. It empowered Nergal as he had never been empowered before.

**The sorrow of others does not touch me. Death feeds me.**

The swell in his aura grew to oppressive levels, bringing those around him to their knees beneath its pressure. Nergal squeezed his open palm into a fist at a speed made possible only by his bionics and observed waves of magical force rippling off of his hand from the mere gesture. "Magnificent…" he marveled at his newfound power.

**Death pleases me. I am the essence I consume.**

How much stronger had he become? What was he now capable of? Curiously, Nergal set his sights upon a mountain range on the eastern horizon. The range marked the border between Ostia and Thria. Nergal pointed and spoke a single word:

"…Ereshkigal…"

An explosion of black magic detonated with such force that Elibe shook, and the mountains were no more.

* * *

"_Damn it Mark, what the hell is going on up there?" _Pent called out telepathically. His attack force was far underground now—two storage units and a research lab away from their objective if Mark's schematics were to be believed—in what looked to be some kind of staging area for the winged machines Phyrexia used to drop bombs and mount cannons. An _aircraft hangar_, Mark had called it. Such things were not known on Elibe.

Their descent had been hellish. They had passed torture chambers and medical labs and grotesque combinations of the two and seen things they would never be able to unsee; vats of creatures that had once been men with bodies destroyed beyond a healers skill, kept alive only by the machines stabbing into them. They cried out and begged for Pent to end their torment as he made his passing. Pent could not even bring himself to spare a look at those broken things as he refused in silence; for if he did he feared he might lose his composure in front of his men.

And now they had just felt the entire compound shake as though caught in an earthquake. That couldn't be good.

"_That?_ _That was just a mountain exploding_," Mark answered far too casually for comfort. Somehow that causal tone of his only added to the sense of urgency._ "You should really make a dash for the plague generators. You're running out of time." _

"_Care to elaborate?" _

Further elaboration proved unnecessary. The meaning of Mark's warning was made plain enough. Pent was the first to feel it; the massive evil aura approaching. His mages were brought to ground by the force of it, clutching their heads in painful migraines. Karel's swordsmen fared no better. Karel himself was struggling noticeably just to keep his footing. Pent alone withstood the pressure.

The roof above the Hangar opened and the pressure crashed down in ever stronger waves. A ship was descending. Something on that ship was causing the pressure. _Nergal_, Pent realized solemnly. The traces of Athos in him recognized his old friend and foe. He was Phyrexian now. A new low, even for a man who had spent the better part of 1,000 years killing for power.

Athos hated him for it. Pent hated him for it. The thought of how far the old friend of the Archsage had fallen; Pent cast out his own aura to clash with the Dark Druid's and lifted the pressure from his men.

"Go." Pent commanded. "Complete the mission; I'll hold them off."

"My lord!" Iris gaped "That's…"

"The command is yours, Iris." Pent gave her a look of thanks and resolve that said so much more than he had time to say. "Lead well. The Mage Corp. needs it's General."

"What…what shall I tell Lady Louise?"

"Words for my widow…you think me dead already?"

"You felt the enemy's power. What can you do against such might?"

"Meet it with my own," Pent responded with a confidence that left his Lieutenant floored. "Go! The plague generators must fall!"

And they were off.

Pent alone stood in the Hangar as the flagship landed and the gangplank fell, and the Lord Nergal stepped forth to meet his opposition.

"You must be Mark," Nergal regarded the source of the magical force pressing against his own. "I've heard so much about you."

"You're in no position to be challenging Mark, if you can't even tell the difference between his power and my own," Pent chided. "If I were Mark, this conversation wouldn't be happening right now. You'd be dead, and I'd be taking whatever is on that ship."

"Oh…a subordinate?" Nergal leered. "A devoted subordinate…such faith you place in your master. I wonder, will you worship him so when Xod makes him flee in terror and leave you for dead?"

Pent laughed despite himself.

"You find this funny, little human?" Nergal glowered.

"No one has ever accused me of placing too much faith in Mark," Pent chuckled. "You assume too much and know too little. Where I come from, men who assume too much and know too little are called fools."

"You dare mock me!?" The quills on Nergal's back bristled in annoyance, and a black ball of elder magic appeared in his hand. "Be Drained of Life, ERISHKIGAL!"  
_  
_Pent waved his hand and spoke a word of denial, and Nergal's spell evaporated away into blue wisps.

"...IMPOSSIBLE!"

"Be purified in fire…"Pent began casting. Condensed flame encased him. Nergal was lost in disbelief. Only one man had ever known that spell...

Pent teleported, appeared directly in front of Nergal with his flame-wreathed hands outstretched and spoke the word of power: "FORBLAZE!"

An inferno erupted in the aircraft hangar, blowing Nergal back the length of 4 flying frigates. Blowback aside, Pent was dismayed to see how little damage his foe had taken from Athos's strongest spell. The fire had merely burned away a bit of skin and revealed the machine parts beneath.

"You…" Nergal paced forward and pointed. Pent was likewise dismayed to see how quicky Nergal got up and how undazed he appeared after taking such a powerful attack. Was the greatest magic in Old Elibe really that outclassed in this new war?

Pent would have liked to think otherwise. But the truth was plain to him.

Nergal dashed with superhuman speed and threw a bashing attack with his shoulder-grafted pincers. The blow could have smashed through a steel girder. Pent blocked it casually…with his cloth-covered arm. This appeared to enrage Nergal further. He bashed again, and Pent blocked again. "How can you use that spell!? Where did you learn it!?"

"What spell?"

"Don't play dumb with me!" Nergal made like he was going to bash a third time such that Pent moved to block his pincers, but instead cast a flux spell that Pent failed to counter. The sage went reeling. "Forblaze was Athos's weapon! Athos's alone!" Nergal hammered Pent with another spell as he attempted to stand up. And another. And another. And another until Pent could no longer attempt to stand. "Athos sent you to kill me, didn't he?" Nergal cast another spell at the immobile splatter of Pent that he had made. "He failed again!"

"Athos's spells aren't the ones you should be worried about," Nergal heard the voice of Pent behind him at the same moment that the image of Pent he had been blasting dispersed, revealing itself to be nothing more than an illusion spell.

Nergal turned around just in time to see the rush of banefire leave Pent's hand. Fire so hot that thran-phyrexian alloy could not withstand it. Fire fit for a king among dragons.

Nergal collapsed, his flesh molten and his machine parts steaming. Yet still, he got back up. The flesh grew back, the machine parts welded, and it was as though the damage had never been done.

"You are making me so mad…" Nergal's aura swelled, and his magic power increased fivefold. Pent braced himself.

And despite himself, he wondered_ what would Mark do in a situation like this_?

* * *

(10 hours earlier, standard time…)

"So what's this…you trust me now?" Pent looked around in wonder and the place Mark had brought him. A place he had only caught glimpses of in his scrying; a dreamscape wonderland of training grounds and research facilities and arcane treasures brought to life from otherworldly tomes. All in a slow time bubble, where century's worth of progress could be made in days.

So this was Mark's secret base in Ilia...

_No_. Mark answered plainly. He was hovering across what appeared to be one of his training grounds, at a distance of about three yards from Pent. The boundaries of the training ground were marked by five magic obelisks, aglow one apiece in each of the five colors of magic, arranged in the shape of a pentagram. _But you will lead my strike force, and you will be the second most powerful being fighting for Elibe in the battles to come. I would see you use your power correctly._

Pent noticed at that moment that the red and green obelisks pulsed.

With no further ado Mark teleported next to Pent, aglow in magics red and green, and brought his warstaff crashing down against Pent's kneecap. So fast that Pent never saw him coming, and so hard that the bone shattered and his leg gave out.

_Red mana can be channeled to increase the user's movement speed and reflexes, _Mark explained what he had just done. _Green mana can be channeled to increase the user's strength and durability._ _Channel magics red and green to bring your speed and power and toughness up to superhuman levels._

"BASTARD!" Pent spat out in pain "YOU BROKE MY KNEE!"

_I have preformed the technique. You will replicate it._

"YOU BROKE MY KNEE!"

_I have performed the technique, _Mark blasted out his own kneecap with a force bolt from his left hand and mended his knee cap with a healing spell from his right hand as he spoke. This time the blue and white obelisks pulsed. _You will replicate it._

Begrudgingly, Pent channeled white magic to his knee as he had seen Mark do and mended what the planeswalker had shattered. No sooner had he done this then he was on the ground again, busted up in the exact same place.

_Green mana can be channeled to increase the user's strength and durability, _Mark repeated. _Channel magics red and green to bring your speed and power and toughness up to superhuman levels._

So that's how he was going to be…

This time Pent channeled red mana first, amping his reflexes as he mended his shattered his leg, and was able to roll to the side as Mark attempted another blow. He channeled green to his good leg and kicked Mark's next attack away, giving him a free moment as Mark stumbled. Then and only then did he channel white and heal himself. When next Mark came charging at him, Pent was prepared to match his speed and strength and fight back.

_Not bad… _the Planeswalker evaluated Pent as they traded blows and healed off the damage. Finally, satisfied with the sage's grasp of the new skills, Mark amped his channeling up to a level that Pent could not match and knocked him away with a forceful blow. _Lets see how you handle this._

The pillars pulsed red and blue.

A conjured dragon—sleek and muscular and clad in maroon scales so streamlined that they appeared to form a single suit of armor—appeared before Pent. It snapped and clawed and launched breath blasts with astounding speed. Pent couldn't handle it.

_That breath is hypersonic. Is that all the mana your body can handle? _Mark taunted. _Be fast as lightning, and be twice as deadly._

Truthfully, Pent was at his limit. But he would never admit that to Mark. Calling on his deepest reserves of grit and determination, the sage pushed himself to endure even stronger flows of magical power through his body. The red and green obelisks glowed brighter and pulsed harder. Pent dodged a hypersonic breath attack and reacted to a snapping attack from the dragon that used it, stopping the dragon's jaws with a single hand and blasting a hole straight through its head with a point-blank bolting spell. Although not without effort or exertion…Pent's whole body ached after channeling that much power.

_Good._

Pent moved just in time to avoid Mark's own lightning bolt. Then another. And another._  
_

_Now, try hitting me with your thunder, _Mark challenged while spamming his own. _Go on. Hit me. _

Pent had to marvel at how Mark could expend that much magic as casually as though he were playing a child's game; more magic then any human being could hope to wield without ripping their body to shreds. The thought of plotting Mark's death suddenly seemed very foolish; Mark wasn't even trying and Pent couldn't touch him. And Mark feared Xod…how strong was the Phyrexian Overlord if all of Mark's powers could not prevail against him? What on Elibe could stop him? Pent shuddered at the thought of it.

Whatever happened, Pent would do his part. He would fight for Elibe with his last ounce of strength.

Seeing an opening, Pent cast lightning at Mark. But the opening was never there; Mark saw the spell coming and waved his hand.

The blue and white obelisks pulsed.

Pent's lightning bolt evaporated into blue wisps, and purifying white mana washed away the infusions of green and red enchantments that made him fast and tough and strong. In the next instant, he was on the ground with another broken knee and Mark lecturing over him.

_Blue mana can be used to cast counterspells, which negate spells that have been cast but have not yet achieved their effect. White mana can be used to dispel enchantments and channeling effects. When up against very fast and very strong opponents with dispel magic, the effect must be countered. Everytime. Or better yet…_

The green and white obelisks flared, as Mark cast a spell that surrounded him with a golden glow.

…_Cast another layer of protection that much be breached before the enchantment underneath can be reached._

Pent had to give Mark credit where credit was due. The kid was a genius.

* * *

"Tremble mortal, and despair," Nergal bellowed, now completely healed from the effects of Pent's banefire. "Your magic can't harm me, student of Athos. You're going to die here."

The enemy was overconfident, talkative, and still had no idea what he was up against. Pent knew exactly what Mark would do in this would try to make the chatty villain say something useful."Why do you side with the invaders against Elibe?" Pent asked.

"Phyrexia is the path to power. Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?"

"I just can't see what's in it for you," Pent mused. "I don't imagine you enjoy licking Xod's boots. Such a cruel master; I don't suppose he's going to like the condition he finds his plague hub in when he returns, is he? How do you suppose he will punish you for your failure?"

"I will surpass Xod soon enough! My power grows with every death in Xod's war!"

"All the quintessence on Elibe wouldn't make you Xod's equal."

"I will spread my power beyond Elibe."

"And you think Xod is just going to sit back and watch while you plot to overthrow him? He'll kill you."

"Phyrexia encourages ambition."

"But Xod looks out for Xod."

"And Xod is interested in keeping me alive. I have knowledge that he requires; knowledge of the dragon gates and the portals to the worlds beyond. Without me he can't reach Magvell and Tellius…"

_Did you hear that, Mark_? Pent thought. Sure enough, mark was eavesdropping.

_Magvell and Tellius. Got it._

_What are we going to do about that?_

_Tellius has its own planeswalker. Ashunera should be able to hold things together for a while. I'll send Fargus and the _Fire Emblem _crew to reinforce Magvell. Your wife is on board you know; best shooter in the crew. Put her on tail-gunner duty. _

_You should have named it _'Weatherlight Reborn.' _And if you're sending your secret weapon to Magvell, how are we going to control the skies on Elibe? We'll talk about my wife's involvement in your schemes later…_

_Its name is_ Skyship Fire Emblem; _for from the fire emblems of 3 worlds was it forged. Louise goes where Louise's skills will be put to best use; there's nothing to discuss. And Ir'Adanos has just informed me that Elibe will have other means of controlling the skies. The ice dragons will return to defend their homeworld, and they will awaken the Primeval of Ilia. _

_You want to awaken a Primeval too? God's above, if we survive this I'm going to kill you… _

_You're welcome to try._

Pent recalled a book he had read a long time ago in Arcadia. The book told of a golden age before man, millions and millions of years ago, when all the world was ruled by the 5 Great Dragon Nations and their immortal God-Kings; the Primevals. A Civil War among the Dragon Nation's—a war lost to the pages of recorded history—had ended in the Primevals being sealed in timeless tombs across Elibe.

Numot the Devastator, the Red Primeval, buried beneath the desert he seared into the world in the sands of Nabata.

Vorash the Hunter, the Green Primeval, buried beneath his jungle hunting grounds on the Western Isles

Oros the Avenger, the White Primeval, buried beneath the sacred dragongrass of Sacae where Hanon had raised his impregnable fortress over the symbol of darconic power.

Intet the Dreamer, the Blue Primeval, buried beneath the Mountain of the Ice Dragon in Ilia.

Teneb the Harvester, the Black Primeval, buried beneath the high capital of the old Dragon Nations and the seat of Hartmut's new order in Bern.

It was said that they were savage and bloodthirsty rulers, that they practiced ancient and terrible arts, and that the Dragon Nation's rebelled against them to escape their intolerable cruelty. Pent could not say he approved of trying to free one from its bindings._  
_  
But Nergal was the more pressing concern. Although Pent was so much faster than his foe from mana-amping that he could have a full telepathic conversation with Mark in the time it took Nergal to blink, it wouldn't do to discount him as a threat. Nergal was very powerful, and Pent was not Mark. If this fight dragged on too long he would run out of mana.

Pent needed to end things quickly.

"You've just thought of everything, haven't you?" Pent taunted. "Why don't you try hitting me with a spell then, mighty Lord Nergal? You haven't landed one yet. Not that you could get past my magic resistance even if you hit me…"

Infuriated, Nergal blasted Pent with Luna. Pent counterspelled and redirected, hitting Nergal with the magic-resistance rending attack that had been meant for him. While his defenses were down, Pent hit him with an immolation spell that would burn continuously and a withering curse that would negate regeneration. Finally, Pent finished his assault with a binding circle.

Nergal was sealed in place, taking constant fire damage, and could not regenerate. That was as close to killing him as Pent could come.

It would have to do.

"I'll leave you like this," Pent paced away as an explosion ripped out from the room where the plague generator should have been. Pent sensed the relief of his companions. Iris had finished the job. "Xod will find his base destroyed, and you, bound and useless at the scene of the wreckage. Good luck with that."

Pent hadn't imagined it would be that easy to inspire dread in Nergal, but what he sensed coming from the Dark Druid at that moment was most definitely fear.

* * *

Kadath was empty, and Xod was furious. He had removed himself to a backwater pocket-dimension and trekked its most desolate places to corner his enemy, and that enemy was elsewhere.

That was before Xod got the report that a planeswalker had raised an army against Plauge Hub Alpha, destroyed his plague generators, and killed thousands of his underlings while conspiring with the ice dragons to keep him away.

Now furious didn't even begin to describe it.

Xod ambulated back to Elibe and found his base inoperable. There should have been corpses—human and Phyrexian—everywhere. Metal and flesh to salvage. But there were wide swaths of ground with no human corpses to be found and Phyrexian corpses charred beyond salvage, their vital parts disintegrated. Wide-angled swaths of the base itself were also missing. The damage looked like it was caused by Phyrexian aircraft weaponry. Curious.

Xod felt the planeswalker's magic everywhere. Where exactly the planeswalker was hiding, Xod could not say, but his assault appeared to still be in progress. Most likely he had not yet fled the scene. Xod could kill him, if he invaded his mind and shut down his thoughts before he planeswalked away. But first he had to be found…

Xod probed and found nothing. The planeswalker was being discreet. A most unusual trait among planeswalkers…this one could be dangerous…

Xod did however detect something else; something that surprised him. The leader of the human rebels who had been causing him so much trouble in Etruria was present amidst the fighting.

Killing him would go a ways towards improving Xod's mood.

* * *

-End of Chapter-

I left Karel out of this chapter. In the original draft, he fights Nergal with Pent and gets one-shotted at the beginning of the fight. On second thought, butting into a mage's quarrel and getting embarrassed like that seemed stupid and out of character for the Sword Demon.

TEASER : Next chapter is going to be a Renault chapter, if/when I write another chapter. Renault's history and the circumstances by which he came to be affiliated with the Church will become very important. Elimine herself might even make an appearance.


End file.
